


As Above, So Below

by virmillion



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Blood, Fighting, Gen, Knives, OCD, Swearing, how many is too many, so many ships and they're all platonic orz, the answer is the number i have
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-08-19 22:36:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 35,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16543613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virmillion/pseuds/virmillion
Summary: au in which roman is a prince (ofc), logan is his advisor (ofc), virgil is a street rat (ofc), and patton in his partner in crime that dreams of seeing the castle (ofc), pretty formulaic but given that it's my first fic in this fandom,, idk





	1. Chapter 1

Virgil hisses gently as the steaming water courses over his shaking hands, twisting and scrubbing each finger one, two, three times clockwise, one two, three times counterclockwise, pick under each nail one, two, three times, wait, that’s four, that’s wrong, too many, too many, gotta start over, gotta restart fix it get the blood out gotta get it out gotta fix it gotta get CLEAN—

“Hey hey hey, you’re okay, you’re okay, I’ve got you,” a voice reassures him. Virgil scrubs harder, ignoring it, panting, get clean get clean get it off get clean still dirty still see it still red still there I can still SEE it—

Arm wrap around Virgil from behind, squeezing to lift him up and away from the sink. Something is looking at him, a face, a nose, still dirty, glasses, eyes, focus, focus, still not CLEAN, a mouth, DIRTY, the mouth moves, scrub HARDER, a raised hand, whose hand, not mine, still dirty, can’t BREATHE, still not clean hand moving too fast dirty blood get it off get it off GET IT OFF—

Smack.

Virgil raises a trembling pink hand to his cheek. Warm. Tingling. Real.

“Are you okay? I’m so sorry, you just wouldn’t stop, I didn’t know what to do,” the face babbles, hands flying everywhere in concern.

“Yeah. Yeah, no, I’m good, I needed that. Thanks, Patton,” Virgil sighs, glancing down at his hands, knuckles rubbed raw and joints peeling. Patton smiles back through his cracked glasses, adjusting them with a thumb. “Wait, sorry, could you just—” Virgil starts, but Patton’s already on it, mimicking his motion with the other hand. “Thanks. Sorry again.”

“No prob, Bob.” Patton flashes a thumbs-up. “Now that we’ve had our little bathroom break, let’s get going! The prince is supposed to be touring Exolas today, and we  _ have  _ to get in a good spot for the parade! He might even wave at us!” Patton sighs dreamily. “What if we already missed it? They didn’t have a scheduled start time! We’re so late, oh no, come on, we gotta go!” Patton takes Virgil by the wrist, past the water damage on his hand, and joins the throng of people moving toward the city center. His enthusiasm and forceful shoving through the crowd earn him several glares and a few curse words, but Patton doesn’t seem to notice or care. Virgil follows quietly behind, easily keeping up with his long, lanky legs, offering mumbled apologies to everyone sneering at Patton. To be fair, for a city of convicted murderers and treasonists, these people are being downright friendly.

“Look, look, I see it, there it goes! There’s his carriage!” Patton shouts, breaking into a sprint for the edge of the street after getting through the crowd, Virgil stumbling over himself to keep up. “Hiii!” Patton yells, jumping up and down and waving his arms frantically. If his goal is to be noticed, success is already guaranteed—most of the city has a restraining order from the prince, and hangs a good ten feet back from the edge of the road, leaving a clear view of the extravagant carriage trundling toward them.

“I’m so excited, I just can’t believe we’re actually gonna get to see  _ the  _ Prince Roman!” Patton squeals. Virgil grins back, idly running his hoodie string under a tarnished fingernail.

The carriage, hulking and glimmering, finally comes close enough for Patton to reach out and touch it, which he just barely manages to refrain from doing. The red sashes shine so brightly, it looks like the sparkly white finish behind them should be tinted pink from the glistening crimson. Even the windows, covered by billowing red ribbons, seem to glow in the moonlight. Patton breathes a soft sigh of wonder, so enthralled by the carriage that he doesn’t seem to notice or care that the prince isn’t even sticking a hand out for a wave. A reasonable thing to do, given where they are in the kingdom, especially as the carriage crosses in front of Virgil, the real reason Patton’s down here. Virgil’s fault, really, that they can’t see the prince outside of the carriage. Come on, Virgil, seriously, how could you have been so  _ stupid _ —

Drip

Drip

Splat

Red gleaming tiles

Ragged breathing

Cough

Cough

Silence

Drip

Splat

Shining knives

Yelling

Quiet

Quiet

Drip

Drip

Drip splat

Drip splat splat

Drip splat splat pouring rushing gushing roaring blushing screaming too loud too fast too much too red oh God Virgil what did you  _ do _ —

“Virge, hey, it’s gone, look at me, hey, I’m right here,” Patton says, gripping Virgil’s wrist to ground him in reality. “We may not have gotten to see the prince, but it was still pretty cool, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Virgil admits, grateful that Patton doesn’t push his concern. Just to be safe, Virgil taps Patton’s hand onetwothreefourfiveseveneighteleventhirteenfifteen. “Pretty cool.”

“Woah, look!” Patton shouts suddenly, pointing up the street. Virgil whips his head around, hand flying to where the band across his waist used to be, legs spreading into a defensive stance. Not again, not this time, Virgil  _ will  _ protect him this time, no matter what bastard thinks they can take him.

A dog. A poofy husky, barking and prancing in place, tail a blur.

“A puppy!” Patton cries, running in pursuit as the dog heads up the street, toward the limits of the outlying district.

“Hey, Patton, wait, it’s not safe past the boundary!” Virgil calls, chasing his friend. Even his long strides can barely match the fuel of excitement in Patton’s speed. “There’s no restrictions out there, we don’t even know if there’s anything alive past the limit! You don’t even know where that dog’s been, come on,  _ please  _ come back!” Virgil doesn’t hesitate at the district line, realizing three steps in that he’s outside of his royally designated territory. Step back, quick, get back in the area you’re allowed to be, get back, backpedal, but it’s too late.

His body trembles.

The dog disappears

into

the

trees.

Gone.

Patton turns back.

Terror.

“Virgil, no!”

Shit.


	2. Chapter 2

Virgil hisses gently as the steaming water courses over his shaking hands, twisting and scrubbing each finger one, two, three times clockwise, one two, three times counterclockwise, pick under each nail one, two, three times, wait, that’s four, that’s wrong, too many, too many, gotta start over, gotta restart fix it get the blood out gotta get it out gotta fix it gotta get CLEAN—

“Hey hey hey, you’re okay, you’re okay, I’ve got you,” a voice reassures him. Virgil scrubs harder, ignoring it, panting, get clean get clean get it off get clean still dirty still see it still red still there I can still SEE it—

Arm wrap around Virgil from behind, squeezing to lift him up and away from the sink. Something is looking at him, a face, a nose, still dirty, glasses, eyes, focus, focus, still not CLEAN, a mouth, DIRTY, the mouth moves, scrub HARDER, a raised hand, whose hand, not mine, still dirty, can’t BREATHE, still not clean hand moving too fast dirty blood get it off get it off GET IT OFF—

Smack.

Virgil raises a trembling pink hand to his cheek. Warm. Tingling. Real.

“Are you okay? I’m so sorry, you just wouldn’t stop, I didn’t know what to do,” the face babbles, hands flying everywhere in concern.

“Yeah. Yeah, no, I’m good, I needed that. Thanks, Patton,” Virgil sighs, glancing down at his hands, knuckles rubbed raw and joints peeling. Patton smiles back through his cracked glasses, adjusting them with a thumb. “Wait, sorry, could you just—” Virgil starts, but Patton’s already on it, mimicking his motion with the other hand. “Thanks. Sorry again.”

“No prob, Bob.” Patton flashes a thumbs-up. “Now that we’ve had our little bathroom break, let’s get going! The prince is supposed to be touring Exolas today, and we  _ have  _ to get in a good spot for the parade! He might even wave at us!” Patton sighs dreamily. “What if we already missed it? They didn’t have a scheduled start time! We’re so late, oh no, come on, we gotta go!” Patton takes Virgil by the wrist, past the water damage on his hand, and joins the throng of people moving toward the city center. His enthusiasm and forceful shoving through the crowd earn him several glares and a few curse words, but Patton doesn’t seem to notice or care. Virgil follows quietly behind, easily keeping up with his long, lanky legs, offering mumbled apologies to everyone sneering at Patton. To be fair, for a city of convicted murderers and treasonists, these people are being downright friendly.

“Look, look, I see it, there it goes! There’s his carriage!” Patton shouts, breaking into a sprint for the edge of the street after getting through the crowd, Virgil stumbling over himself to keep up. “Hiii!” Patton yells, jumping up and down and waving his arms frantically. If his goal is to be noticed, success is already guaranteed—most of the city has a restraining order from the prince, and hangs a good ten feet back from the edge of the road, leaving a clear view of the extravagant carriage trundling toward them.

“I’m so excited, I just can’t believe we’re actually gonna get to see  _ the  _ Prince Roman!” Patton squeals. Virgil grins back, idly running his hoodie string under a tarnished fingernail.

The carriage, hulking and glimmering, finally comes close enough for Patton to reach out and touch it, which he just barely manages to refrain from doing. The red sashes shine so brightly, it looks like the sparkly white finish behind them should be tinted pink from the glistening crimson. Even the windows, covered by billowing red ribbons, seem to glow in the moonlight. Patton breathes a soft sigh of wonder, so enthralled by the carriage that he doesn’t seem to notice or care that the prince isn’t even sticking a hand out for a wave. A reasonable thing to do, given where they are in the kingdom, especially as the carriage crosses in front of Virgil, the real reason Patton’s down here. Virgil’s fault, really, that they can’t see the prince outside of the carriage. Come on, Virgil, seriously, how could you have been so  _ stupid _ —

Drip

Drip

Splat

Red gleaming tiles

Ragged breathing

Cough

Cough

Silence

Drip

Splat

Shining knives

Yelling

Quiet

Quiet

Drip

Drip

Drip splat

Drip splat splat

Drip splat splat pouring rushing gushing roaring blushing screaming too loud too fast too much too red oh God Virgil what did you  _ do _ —

“Virge, hey, it’s gone, look at me, hey, I’m right here,” Patton says, gripping Virgil’s wrist to ground him in reality. “We may not have gotten to see the prince, but it was still pretty cool, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Virgil admits, grateful that Patton doesn’t push his concern. Just to be safe, Virgil taps Patton’s hand onetwothreefourfiveseveneighteleventhirteenfifteen. “Pretty cool.”

“Woah, look!” Patton shouts suddenly, pointing up the street. Virgil whips his head around, hand flying to where the band across his waist used to be, legs spreading into a defensive stance. Not again, not this time, Virgil  _ will  _ protect him this time, no matter what bastard thinks they can take him.

A dog. A poofy husky, barking and prancing in place, tail a blur.

“A puppy!” Patton cries, running in pursuit as the dog heads up the street, toward the limits of the outlying district.

“Hey, Patton, wait, it’s not safe past the boundary!” Virgil calls, chasing his friend. Even his long strides can barely match the fuel of excitement in Patton’s speed. “There’s no restrictions out there, we don’t even know if there’s anything alive past the limit! You don’t even know where that dog’s been, come on,  _ please  _ come back!” Virgil doesn’t hesitate at the district line, realizing three steps in that he’s outside of his royally designated territory. Step back, quick, get back in the area you’re allowed to be, get back, backpedal, but it’s too late.

His body trembles.

The dog disappears

into

the

trees.

Gone.

Patton turns back.

Terror.

“Virgil, no!”

Shit.


	3. Chapter 3

Virgil sits ramrod straight in an uncomfortable faux leather chair, his right leg bouncing wildly and his face contorted into a look of discomfort from the relentless squeaking of Patton’s seat. If he could just stop shifting every three seconds, it'd be fine. It would also help if that kid across the room stopped humming.

“Do you think they'll let me come back with you?” Patton asks, stopping his infernal fidgeting long enough to look over at Virgil, who's busy counting the tiles on the floor by threes with  _ would that kid stop freaking humming over there  _ sixteen tiles in one row by six rows, the latter being a bad number so Virgil switches to counting the tiles on the  _ stop humming  _ ceiling, fifteen by seven up there which are  _ shut up _ two good numbers so now it's okay as long as that kid stops vibrating his damn vocal cords.

“Virgil? You good? What do you think?” Patton asks again. Virgil wishes he didn't have to answer, that Patton would just keep talking and drown out the humming, so obnoxious. Wait, Patton’s looking over, what was the question?

“Sorry, spacing out,” Virgil admits, watching his hands wring themselves like a wet towel. He sits on them to avoid worsening the rawness, then continues, “what did you ask me?”

“If you think they’ll let me come back there with you.”

“Oh. Um, I’m not really sure? It depends on the person that’s in today, probably, like how sympathetic they are and stuff.” Speak of the devil, a door swings open inside the waiting room of 105 ceiling tiles, 96 floor tiles, and a snot-faced kid that doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut. Well, more like stay quiet while his mouth is shut. A woman leans on the door frame, says something to the receptionist tapping away at what’s probably a solitaire game, then disappears back into the hall. The receptionist glances up, locks eyes with Virgil, and jerks his head in a ‘come here’ motion.

“What’s up,” Virgil mumbles, mentally kicking himself for not being more formal.

“Virgil?”

“Yep, that’s me.”

“Great, go on back, third door on your left. Want your friend to come?” Suddenly, complete dread washes over Virgil. If Patton goes back there, and they say something he shouldn’t hear… Time for Virgil to learn telepathy! With every fiber of his being, he tries desperately to communicate his desire not to have Patton accompany him while still nodding his head, but alas, telepathy eludes him. “Look, kid, if you don’t give verbal consent, I don’t let him in,” the receptionist murmurs. With a silent thanks to whoever’s running the karma ring, Virgil slips through the door, shutting it behind him. The soft click of the latch echoes through the hall, reverberating off of every surface and turning a simple knob sound into a cacophony of booms. Or Virgil’s just overreacting because he’s so nervous, but who is he to judge how he feels about himself? Finally,  _ finally _ , the noise stops, just as Virgil is about to raise his hands to cover his ears. No humming. No squeaking. Silence. Virgil sighs, then starts off down the hall.

What door was it again? Not on the right, because the guy definitely said left since Virgil’s left side feels way too heavy, for which he tries to compensate with measured exhales on the right, longer inhales on the left. Overcorrection, rinse, repeat, until it the sides even themselves out. He switches to long strides to maintain a consistent three steps per tile, discreetly peeking into each left door to check for the lady he saw talking to the receptionist. First room, old guy and teenage girl staring each other down, the girl folding her arms defensively and looking pretty darn pissed.  _ Note to self _ , Virgil thinks,  _ never get on scary mean girl’s bad side. _ The old guy could probably go down with a swift kick behind the knees from a toddler, to be honest. Next room with some dude, early twenties, sobbing his eyes out. Tattoos litter his arms, flowers and thorns and animals intertwining across biceps and galaxies crawling over fingertips. A comforting back rub from another guy in a really official-looking suit. Next up, the lady from before. Perfect.

“Virgil, great, I’m Nina, nice to meet you,” she says. Her words shoot out faster than bullets, rapid firing too fast for Virgil’s mind to keep up. He crosses the five tiles to reach out and take her hand, one two three one two three one two three one two three one two three four five as he takes smaller steps to come to a stop. A mumbled “Hi” from Virgil, and Nina is off to the races.

“As I’m sure you know, we called you into the investigation offices today due to the previous night’s infraction on your behalf of passing the boundaries clearly defined for you under royal law. The unfortunate turn of events as you’ve carried them out has resulted in a cancellation of your previously clean probation, which has lead to quite a large upset in your current case. Just last night, in fact, while you decided so callously to break the terms of your probation, the prince and his royal advisor were personally considering overturning your exile ruling on a good behavior clause. With regards to your failure to comply with the rules necessary to achieve such an exemption prior to and during said meeting, there will be no more probationary periods, and the next time you overstep your boundaries, both literally and metaphorically, there  _ will  _ be a personal audience with the prince and his first royal advisor, as they were the ones who elected to allow you to keep your life so many years ago. Good day, and I hope I never have to see you back here under these conditions again.”

With his head still spinning like a track star on a hamster wheel, Virgil stumbles his way out the door, overloaded with information to the point of his steps getting out of sync, one one two one one two three four one one one two one two three out the door and to Patton. He vaguely registers the rooms now on the right, the two guys hugging, the girl looking to be on the verge of tears as the old guy looks bored out of his mind.

“I need some air. Care to take a walk?” Virgil extends a hand to help Patton up, pulling him away from the kid that was humming earlier. Thankfully, he’s finally stopped, and Patton moved to a non-squeaky chair, too. Awesome.

“Sure, sounds fun!” Patton agrees, taking Virgil’s hand and holding it even as they go out the door. Just before it closes, Patton turns back to wave with his free hand at the kid—Alex, he calls them—as well as at the receptionist. “So what’d they say?”

“I’m off of probation,”  _ I’m screwed _ , “next time they’ll have me meet with the prince and his advisor,”  _ something I need to avoid at all costs _ , “and something about an earlier good behavior situation being cancelled.  _ Basically, I messed up big time. _ Virgil fidgets with the string of his hoodie to distract himself from the argument his brain is having with his mouth, running the seam under his thumb on the left one two the right one two the middle one two three, never two in the middle lest there be a six which is an ugly number and he can’t have that kind of number by itself without fixing it and—

“Well hey, you went this long on good behavior, right?” Patton interrupts. “Maybe you can do it again!” Ever the optimist.

“I don’t think you know what cancelled means.”

“That’s okay, I’m learning as I grow up! That’s one of the more fun parts of adultery!”

“I don’t think you know what adultery means.”

“Nor do I have to, and that’s what makes it fun!”

The pair carries on like this, a bright ball of sunshine beaming away at a rain cloud, touring the safer parts of the city. A couple of times, they pass some street musicians absolutely killing it, for whom they stop to listen and offer some spare change. No stray dogs, no overwhelming memories, no bathroom breaks to tear up hands. Just walking. Just Patton. Peaceful.

Perfect.


	4. Chapter 4

Logan strolls calmly through the corridor of the palace, adjusting his blue tie to sit straight and unwrinkled. The sun rises with the dawn outside, the floor-to-ceiling windows casting sunbeams into the hall, illuminating specks of dust dancing in the air and warming the space like summer. This is one of Logan’s favorite times of day—the silence at daybreak, a whole palace to himself as all of the other inhabitants doze peacefully for a few more hours. A close contender is late at night, when everyone else has retired to their rooms, or raided the kitchen already. The quietness and his own company are all Logan really needs, and just toss in a good book with some Crofter’s-jellied toast for a good day.

He reaches the end of the windowed hall, immediately feeling colder in the next room, with its curtains drawn and doors tightly shut. The library. An ideal room, full of towering bookshelves overflowing with every genre imaginable, organized thousands of different ways every week—one of Logan’s favorite hobbies. But that’s a task for later. For now, he continues through the cold room, trailing a hand over the only cypress desk in the room—a dark slab of wood amidst a handful of pale brazilian cherry tops. Fond memories live within this desk, of late hours preparing for royal court visits, or burning eyes from straining to read with the shrinking light of the candle wick, of escaping the havoc of Exolas and its problems for more peaceful, distant worlds.

In the hall and down the stairs, Logan runs his hand over the red mesquite banister, admiring the smooth finish—the palace staff finally replaced the offending old oak railing. It was like a stain overlooking the grand space before it, painted in a red and white pattern so unnatural it might well have been hundreds of candy canes lining the steps.

Having thoroughly criticized the old decorations, Logan jumps from the third-to-last step to the floor, allowing himself a small smile at the pleasure of it. An old tradition from when he was younger, a little less of a daredevil now than he was then—sliding down the railing on his stomach, face-first and hands in the air, isn’t exactly the safest way to get down the stairs anymore. It probably wasn’t necessarily safe in the first place, anyway.

On to the kitchen, just starting to see the beginnings of activity as the cooks prepare breakfast. Logan lifts a hand in greeting to the head chef, Grace, who waves back with a batter-covered spatula.

“Hi Lo!” she calls out, “why haven’t I seen you lately?”

“Busy with royal nonsense, you understand,” Logan replies, sidestepping someone carrying a platter larger than his head.

“Definitely, but when are we gonna see you down here more often? You’re missing training,” Grace whines, looking back at her oven as Logan recalls the near misses of a knife to his head in their ‘training.’ Admittedly, not a displeasurable time.

“Maybe so, but I would assume you’re missing it, too, if you’ve clawed your way to head of the kitchen staff. How long, precisely, has it taken you to get here?”

“Couple weeks, but you know I’m gonna fight tooth and nail to keep it.” Grace expertly flips a giant rainbow chocolate chip pancake to prove her point. Undoubtedly a special request from one of the younger denizens of the palace.

“I’m sure,” Logan grins. “I’ll look into coming back for training, as I do rather miss it.” He plucks an apple from a basket by the door and calls goodbyes as he slips out of the kitchen, wiping the apple on his shirt and heading for the stairs again. With the apple’s tart flavor spreading over his tongue, it’s time to traverse the endless hallways to find and wake Roman.

As Logan lifts a fist to knock on the tall white door, adorned with red ribbons and rubies, it flies open, Roman’s beaming face behind it.

“Since when do you wake up this early in a good mood?” Logan asks. “You’re the last creature alive I’d associate with being a morning person.”

“Because I finally found one that’ll stump you!” Roman declares triumphantly. He holds up a book of logic puzzles, from which he gives Logan one the first time they see each other every day. Needless to say, most of those who live in the castle avoid going to the bathrooms frequented by the pair in the morning, since they likely don’t want to hear another riddle when they’re just trying to pee.

“Alright, let me have it.” Logan smiles, biting into the apple again. Roman rarely gets this excited unless the puzzle is  _ really _ hard.

“Okay, so there’s this guy trying to get into a secret club, right? So he stakes out the club building and watches other people get in. The person guarding the door says a number, and the one trying to get in says a number in response. The guard says twelve, so the first member says six. For the next person, the guard says six, so the second member says three. When the guy trying to sneak in goes up, he’s given the number ten, so he says five, but they don't let him in! Why not?” Roman summarizes all of this from the longer description in the book, snapping it shut with an air of confidence that Logan won’t be able to solve it.

“Roman, I had high hopes for you! This one should have been far more difficult, given your excitement in its introduction,” Logan remarks.

“Big words from someone who hasn't solved the riddle yet,” Roman pouts. Logan swallows an apple chunk and gives his answer.

“Not out loud, I haven’t. The guy sneaking in should have said three—three letters in the number ten, three letters in the number six, six letters in the number twelve.”

“Way to kill my mood.” Roman sticks his tongue out, tosses the book into his messy room, and links an arm with Logan, stealing a bite from his half-eaten apple.

“First of all, if you would give me a better riddle, I wouldn’t  _ have _ to ruin your mood. Secondly, I’m about to make it even worse,” Logan reassures him, snatching the apple back.

“How so?” A note of dread tints the edge of Roman’s words. Logan making a threat is never a good sign.

“Today is AKI day.” Assessment of Kingdom Issues, otherwise known as sitting on a throne and doing nothing while citizens talk at Roman, letting Logan deliver the harsh blows before allowing Roman to comfort the people. What fun. “Come on, Princey, down to the throne room, where many great joys and adventures await you in the riveting political scheme of Exolas.”

“I thought I said not to call me that,” Roman grumbles, pretending to be upset. Logan ignores him, carrying on through grand ballrooms, expansive hallways, and peaceful lounges to arrive at the second largest set of doors in the palace. Just ahead of them in size is the entry doors, which proudly guard the building at three stories tall. The doors now in front of the pair are backed with white birchwood, the towering gates looming over the hall. They consume all light and attention with their inlaid rubies and diamonds, spitting it back in glittering patterns across the walls. Even the pashmina carpet, embroidered with gold, dances in the light of the shining stones, all crawling up the door and intertwining with gold piping as it runs across silver lace. Breathtaking, to say the least, but too manufactured for Logan’s tastes.

He throws the door open without a moment of hesitation to admire the shifting reflections of the jewels, exposing a room to rival the doors themselves. A long, vermillion carpet leads up to an elevated stage of hickory pine, polished to smooth perfection. Upon the stage rests one throne, cushioned with rose red and held up by a frame of gold inset with pearls. Only one throne, as the king never lowers himself to interacting with his subjects for AKIs. Dotting the walls of the room stand great marble columns, covered in reliefs of the king in stuff of legend, defeating every obstacle in his path. There’s but one column remaining incomplete, just to the right of the door; some servants hammer away at it, revealing a scene of Roman dueling a dragon.

Having already become desensitized to the scene over their many years of entering the room, the two boys walk right past it all, hardly noticing the striking progress on Roman’s column, or the fervent bows of the workers they pass. Roman settles heavily into the throne, situating his sash to be unrumpled before resting his right ankle on his left knee. Logan takes up position to the left of the throne, holding his shoulders square and clasping his hands behind his back. Roman twiddles his thumbs impatiently as Logan looks on, watching the large doors swing shut to allow unhappy people to line up behind them before coming in to yell at a prince who has absolutely no control over their rotten lots in life.

With a forceful clearing of his throat, Logan kicks the foot of the throne before holding out something very important that Roman somehow managed to forget—his crown. Honestly, it’s a downright miracle that Logan doesn’t just wear it himself at this point. He’s got half a mind to do so, but the other half is preoccupied with sorting out problems for those lucky enough to be able to vent their misdirected anger at Roman.

As Roman finishes adjusting the crown on his head, the doors swing open like a gaping mouth, allowing a castle guard to escort in the first unhappy citizen. Haggard, with tattered clothes and filthy hair, but the shoes on their feet are just shy of being worn all the way through, indicating that while this person might be down on their luck, they haven’t yet reached the bottom of the barrel, typically shown by wearing paper bags for shoes.

“That city of convicts is out of control!” they yell, prompting the guard to shift into a defensive stance. “Every day, they’re always out and about—”

“Doing what?” Logan interrupts, already disinterested and a good deal irritated. “Being human? Trying to move past their soiled backgrounds? Avoiding airheads like you that refuse to accept that some people have it worse than others, and that leads them to make regrettable bad decisions?” The person below Logan and Roman opens and closes their mouth a few times, not unlike a fish gasping in air. With a scowl, Logan jerks his chin at the door, prompting the guard to show the person out. “You aren’t the first person to complain about them,” Logan calls, “and I’m certain you won’t be the last.” Roman gives a half-hearted apology, but the snobbish complainer is already gone. Embarrassment, anger, or something else has made them rush out in a huff, without waiting for the guard, but quite frankly, Logan doesn’t really care.

The next person ushered in carries a basket of spoiled fruits and vegetables. Evidence, in Logan’s opinion, is always more useful in these situations than empty grievances aired for the express purpose of seeing the inside of the palace. This person has some issue about pesticides from a neighbor killing all of their crops, a real problem with an actual solution,  _ finally _ .

Logan leans down to murmur in Roman’s ear, “send them back with a cease and desist notice for the neighbor, and have the guard take them to the kitchens for some produce-friendly pesticides. Say to ask for Grace, and mention that Logan sent them.” Roman repeats as much to the basket-carrier and the guard, pleased when this citizen walks out in much higher spirits than the one before.

AKIs aren’t so bad, truthfully. Just exhaustingly tedious. With few real problems and all too many complaints about the city of convicts, Logan and Roman are at their wits’ end, and it’s not even lunch yet.

“It’s about the city of convicts,” the latest person says, barreling straight through Logan’s automatic ‘holier than thou’ speech. “Not the convicts themselves, but there are these two boys that are nowhere near as rough as the other people in that city.” Before Logan can attempt to interrupt the person again, Roman holds a hand up in a  _ stop  _ gesture. This might actually be worth listening to. “Both of them have purple hair, kind of like yours,” they bow to the prince and Logan in turn, “and I’m just not sure that it’s in their best interests to leave them out there. I don’t know the two personally, but I’m concerned for their safety.” The person bows low again before allowing the guard to lead them out. The door shuts behind the pair and remains so. AKIs over.

“Now that’s an interesting one,” Logan remarks. Roman gives a noncommittal grunt of agreement, rising from his throne in search of food. Making a mental note of the latest complaint and carefully filing it away for later consideration, Logan follows.


	5. Chapter 5

All opinions aside, the city of convicts is literally the dirtiest place imaginable, or at the very least within the kingdom of Exolas. People regularly walk the streets appearing to have just waded through sewers on a hunt for buried treasure, their clothes reeking and their body odor… we’ll call it  _ unpleasant _ . Upon closer inspection, one might learn that they are not, in fact, Captain Blackbeard on a vicious hunt, but rather one more person whose basic shower and washing utilities are broken. As a matter of fact, scavenging sewers for treasure would probably make those people cleaner, but this is a theory Virgil has no intentions of testing.

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?” Patton asks, referring to the lightning-fast meeting that Virgil barely understood then, let alone now. Rather, he squeezes Patton’s hand reassuringly and shakes his head. “Do you want to talk at all?” Another headshake. “Do you mind if I do?” A shrug. Close enough.

Virgil is all too focused on counting his steps and shuffling to avoid stepping six times between pavement cracks to notice Patton’s sparkling conversation, hardly any of which gets through Virgil’s mental shield. If he can just avoid the cracks and balance nudging them with his toes versus scraping them with his heels and then tap his index fingers one two perfectly to fix that time he stepped on a crack, he’ll be fine. Tap the fingers one, two, but the finger pads slide too much bad taps wipe it off on his pants one two three try again one two wipe it off one two three try again one two but six taps with six wipes are bad wipe it off try again one two success. If Virgil can just lock all of that down, then he won’t get in trouble or have to go to the palace again.

After a long, fifteen-step pavement square, Virgil allows himself to relax a little. Fifteen equals good number equals safety net equals a chance to listen to Patton. For now.

“Look, that’s the graffiti mark we fixed!” Patton exclaims. Sure enough, dead ahead stands an abandoned brick building covered in spray paint. Halfway around it is a vertical red line, the unofficial boundary line for the city of convicts in tangible form. The only thing painted on that building that’s been left alone. Another one of the colorful masses looks vaguely related to something one might argue could be a distant relative of a dog, but only if that person arguing their case needed a good pair of glasses. And they were squinting. A lot. It’s not the best artwork.

In the dog’s defense, it’s not supposed to be there; it’s actually just a cover-up for when somebody scrawled the word ‘fuck’ underneath it. Virgil thinks back on their reparation job of that word with a smile—three shakes of a spray paint can before handing it off to Patton to make a rainbow puppy. Thankfully, he never questioned the fresh paint when he saw Virgil there, or why, exactly, Virgil just so happened to appear there with a bunch of half-empty cans of spray paint.

“Come to think of it, why  _ were  _ you hanging out by this building that day?” Patton turns to Virgil, curiosity lingering in his eyes. Welp. “I know you’re not really up to talking right now, but you never told me.” Only another shrug from Virgil, and Patton carries on, unconcerned. He wouldn’t like the truth anyway. Virgil doesn’t much care for the truth, either. For all he knows, Patton figured it out the same day. Honestly, what sort of kid materializes by a building and covers it in swear words? Not an innocent one, and definitely not a clever one, that’s for damn sure. With a double tap one two of his index fingers, Virgil brings himself back to now, ignoring the kid with paint-covered hands and chemical-tinged lungs of the past. A glance down reveals the center of his right foot pressing against a

Crack.

He’s out of

step.

His feet

Aren’t in

Time.

Not a good

Time.

Need to

Sit

Down.

Not enough

Time.

Feet

Pounding

On cracks

In the dark.

Towering 

Gates

Covered in

Rubies.

Help

Me

 

Get me

Inside

The gates

Running

Running

Running

Get inside the gates find the palace escape get  _ help _ legs twisting trip get back  _ up _ get to the palace stumble again stop  _ tripping _ you  _ idiot _ you’re gonna get yourself  _ killed _ get in the gates reach the palace find  _ help _

__ Warm red

Bright white

“Hey, there’s a kid at the gates!”

Brown eyes

Shining smile

Oversized crown

“Well, bring him in!”

Lean in

A whisper

“I’ve been needing a new friend.”

Silence

Silence

silence

“Virgil!” A burning sensation on his cheek, Virgil blinks hard once, twice, and looks around. City of convicts, not the palace. Brown eyes, Patton. Bright smile, Patton. Concerned face, Patton. Not him. Patton. Patton. Virgil made Patton worry.

Again.

“Sorry, you just looked really unsteady and I was worried you’d get hurt and—” Patton rushes out frantically. Virgil cuts him off with a waved hand, pressing the other to his forehead. His head is pounding so much, it wouldn’t take a whole lot of convincing to have him believe his brain was swelling. “If it was about that graffiti, I didn’t mean to—” A ferocious head shake.

Very slowly, the world comes into focus around him.

The brick building.

The painted-over ‘fuck’.

The red boundary line.

The wrong side of the boundary line.

Virgil is sitting

Outside

Of

The

Boundary.

Fuck.


	6. Chapter 6

“You know, there might be a more refined way to eat that,” Logan comments, watching Roman devour a massive rainbow chocolate chip pancake in three bites.

“I’m fuh pumf, ah poo fuh ah wah,” Roman replies. His eyes read as if he just delivered a triumphant insult, but the trail of pancake crumbs covering his clothes say otherwise.

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, buddy.” Logan turns a blade over in his hands, considering. Beside him, Grace picks up a larger one, a hunting knife, hefting its weight in one hand before gripping the handle and chucking it across the room. The tip wedges itself into a wall twenty feet away, sticking out proudly at ninety degrees—pi over two radians, if we’re being respectful to the unit circle.

Swallowing thickly around the mouthful of pancake, Roman sighs, “do I  _ really _ need to be here for your guys’ training? It’s not like I’m participating.”

“Only because you whined so much about having to do it last time.” Logan snaps his wrist, sending a kukri spinning across the room, sinking into the wall just to the right of where Grace’s landed. Three more wrist flicks, and her knife is framed on all sides.

“Because there’s no point!” Roman groans. “In what situation would we use close-handed knives to defend ourselves when we can just as easily use swords?”

Wordlessly, Logan taps his fingers along the cart of blades and selects three trench knives, slipping one between each non-thumb digit on his right hand. Grace backs away carefully, a mischievous grin spreading across her face as she pulls the five knives from the wall. Logan feints an elbow to Roman’s gut, catching him in a left-footed roundhouse kick as Roman dodges to the right. Before Roman can recover from the blow as he stumbles, Logan finishes out a second turn with a sweeping right leg, catching the prince by his foot and tossing him in the air. Roman crashes down on his side with a wince, rolling to the side quickly as Logan flicks his pinky, sending one of the trench knives spiraling forward, all while mid-somersault. The knife slams into the ground not two inches from Roman’s head, his near dodge a life saver. Still tumbling, Logan releases a second knife to send Roman right back where he was, nose-to-blade with the first throw. Logan finishes his roll at Roman’s hip, kicking out a leg to straddle the prince. Without so much as a blink, the last trench knife is drawn and held against Roman’s throat, his head trapped in place by the knives on either side of his head.

“Go on, princey, get your sword out. Try to kill me, I  _ dare _ you. See what happens,” Logan mocks, knowing full well that Roman will do nothing of the sort, not when the slightest motion will end in his own decapitation. Roman merely blows a puff of air up to get his purple hair out of his face. “That, my liege, is why we train with close-handed knives.” Logan rocks back on his heels, retrieving each of the blades to return them to their places on the tray. Given the opportunity as Logan’s back is turned, Roman launches himself at the advisor, his sword drawn and raised over his head. Just when he’s about to land a blow on Logan, a hunting knife sails through the air, catching Roman by the loose fabric of his pants and yanking his feet backwards. He lands hard on his stomach, instinctively raising his leg up to avoid any cuts. Logan turns around, a wicked grin on his face, as Grace walks up beside him, the remaining four kukris in her hands.

“Lesson number one,” Logan says, “always have backup.” Grace plucks the knife from Roman’s pant leg as Logan offers a hand to help him up, which Roman takes begrudgingly as he dusts himself off.

“Point taken,” he grumbles, sheathing his sword. Logan smiles, a rare warmth on a face normally wrinkled in concern over how best to move forward. Roman would hazard a guess that Logan is under more stress than the king himself, but he’d deny it up down and sideways if anyone ever told the king as much.

With Roman’s uniform as clean as it can be after a fight, and the cart of knives organized, Logan sets about showing the prince the basics of each knife. Grace hangs back, letting the pair isolate themselves as she works on her own, each throw quicker than the last. Shockingly enough, the next person in the room to yell isn’t Roman, but is in fact a newcomer to the training area.

A tall girl of at least six feet and impossibly long blonde hair crashes in, her running shoes covered in dirt. Her face is pink, obviously exerted from a long run, but she’s barely broken a sweat.

“Ari, hey!” Grace exclaims, quickly running a hand over her hair in a vain attempt to make it presentable. “What’s, uh, what’s goin’ on?”

Ari shoots Grace a smile before turning to Roman and Logan with a bow. “News from the city of convicts. That Virgin kid left the boundary, twice, so he’s been detained, and a team of royal guards are escorting him here as we speak. Your presence has been specially requested in his meeting, as you two were the ones to pardon him last time. There’s also some other guy coming with him, Parker or something.” Something in Ari’s voice gives off the impression that she knows full well the boys’ names, and got them wrong on purpose. At the very least, it makes Grace snicker.

“Thank you, Ari,” Logan says with Roman, who continues, “did you seriously run all the way here from the city of convicts?” Ari nods, flexing her feet to stretch her calves as Grace looks on, whipping her head away when Ari notices. The tall girl gives a two-fingered salute before sprinting off to deliver some other message, winking at Grace on her way out. Grace nearly passes out on the spot.

“Off to the trial room, then?” Roman asks, crooking an elbow to link with Logan’s. The boys wave at Grace as she heads out for the kitchens, likely planning a pit stop on the way to talk to a certain blonde-haired girl.

“Funny, I don’t remember ever pardoning a Virgin,” Logan remarks, ignoring Roman’s laughs at the name.

“Guess we’ll figure it out soon enough,” Roman replies. Arm in arm, the pair exits the training room.


	7. Chapter 7

Virgil slouches in the pristine white carriage, letting his hair fall over his eyes. Patton, on the other hand, is bouncing off the walls, pressing his nose against the windows and drawing a face in the fog left from his breath. With a scowl, Virgil recalls the absolutely ridiculous scenario that got him here. That stupid flashback out of nowhere, the Nina lady rolling up with feigned disappointment, a carriage that might well have been pulled out of her butt, Patton’s demand to accompany Virgil. Mix it all together and you know that it’s the worst of both worlds.

“Look, there’s the gardens!” Patton gasps, his cheek against the window to see further ahead. “All these rose bushes! Look at that fountain! Wow, check out the—” He stops mid-sentence, flailing a hand behind him in Virgil’s general direction. “Virgil. Virgil. Virgilient. Viridian. Virgil. Verge. Virgil. Virgil.” Forcing back a sigh, Virgil takes Patton’s outstretched hand to join him at the window. “The gates,” Patton breathes. The carriage and boys are instantly dwarfed by the towering silver gates, bedecked with diamonds and rubies. Their shadow stretches across the road, casting the carriage into a moment of darkness. Virgil remains stoutly unimpressed, but forces a smile to feign shock for Patton’ sake. Ahead of the gates, which part on their arrival, stands an impossibly massive palace, looming over the entirety of the entrance gardens and their fountains.

Virgil leans back on the seat, fighting the urge to jump through the window and bolt for the city of convicts. Patton, not noticing his friend’s disdain, continues to take in the sights, ooh-ing and ah-ing at every last detail. Even the pavement isn’t safe from his admiration, given how clean it is. With his eyes fixated on his ratty shoes, Virgil ambles along from the carriage into the palace, guards flanking either side of him and Patton. Virgil ignores the marble tile floors—five square steps each—he ignores the lines between rooms—a centered step with each foot on the tile seam—and he ignores the cathedral windows—seven panels tall by two panels wide with a rounded triangle at the top.

All too soon, the guards deposit the boys in some giant room that Virgil readily blocks out—he doesn’t count the eight tile wide entryway, he doesn’t count the twenty one jewels embedded in the only throne in the room, and he certainly doesn’t count the thirty seven tiles separating him and Patton from the two guys in front of them. Most of all, he doesn’t watch that white-clad arm wave a hand to dismiss the guards out the door. If anything, he might deign to notice the kick from a guard to his knees, forcing him to kneel as Patton goes down voluntarily beside him.

“So, you’re the Virgil in question, I presume?” Gritting his teeth, Virgil lifts his eyes to see some guy in a tie looking unimpressed, probably the one who posed the question. He takes Virgil’s silence for confirmation before continuing, “who’s the other one?”

Virgil winces as Patton rises next to him, mentally kicking himself for not giving Patton a rundown on court etiquette earlier.  _ Typical Virgil, _ he thinks,  _ assuming everything will already be taken care of. _ Tie boy makes no comment at Patton standing without consent, merely waiting for his response. “If someone tries to take my best friend somewhere he doesn’t want to be, there’s no way I’m letting them take him alone.”

“Love the monologue. Still doesn’t tell me who you are,” Tie boy replies drily. Princey dude next to him lets a giggle escape before clapping a hand over his mouth.

“Right, right, so sorry. My name’s Patton.”

“Thank you. Virgil, up.” Mentally, Virgil pulls off some cool stunt where he jumps from his knees to his feet with his hands still shoved in his pockets, but in reality, he just uses the freezing marble floor as leverage to get up like a normal person. Immediately, he wrenches his hand back as if it’d been burned, the floor so perfect and sterile that is leaves his fingers quivering. Princey dude locks eyes with Virgil, a look that he returns with a vengeance, daring the royal to look away first.  _ Roman, _ he thinks, but no, Princey dude is better, less personal, less of a giveaway. Regardless, Princey dude breaks the stare, a question lingering in his eyes.

“As we’ve heard, you passed your boundary line twice now, which has led to your current presence in this room today.” Tie boy takes a step forward.

“Redundant much?” Virgil mutters.

“Excuse me?”

“Redundant,” Virgil repeats. “Current and today, you don’t need to say both words in the same sentence.” Tie boy stiffens, a weird expression crossing his face for a split second.

“Right. Anyway. Evidently, Prince Roman pardoned you from execution, so he’s responsible for your situation now, despite his lack of memory regarding doing so.”  _ Shit, _ Virgil thinks,  _ he might still know. _

__ “Yeah,” Princey dude confirms, finally speaking up. Patton’s eyes sparkle at the utter composure of this boy garbed in white and red. “Care to enlighten us on the circumstances surrounding your earlier pardoning and release?” At Virgil’s silence, Princey dude nods. “Got it. Moving on, your consequences for violating the restrictions of your exile.” The words, formal and boring, sound out of place in Princey dude’s mouth, as if he’d eaten a dictionary for breakfast.

“Before you are posed two choices,” Tie boy continues, taking over again. “Execution, or constant surveillance by Prince Roman and myself, intermittently.”

“Oxymoron,” Virgil comments, neglecting to joke about the vague connection between surveillance and vigilance.

“Come again?” A muscle feathers in Tie boy’s jaw.

“Intermittent means not continuous, or at unsteady intervals, and while you use it to imply that different people will be keeping watch over me, so to speak, it lies in direct contrast with you saying ‘constant surveillance,’ thereby making it an oxymoron.” Tie boy looks remarkably close to slapping Virgil.

“As I said, execution is also an option,” he spits.

“Sure, but given that your guards went to the trouble of bringing a street rat like me all the way here, with a plus one no less, I’m gonna go ahead and assume Princey dude over there isn’t intent on that course of action.” Virgil isn’t quite sure where this sass is coming from, but he won’t deny enjoying the reactions it’s getting. Especially from Patton, who’s forcing back a laugh at each remark.

“Did you just call me Princey dude?” Princey dude asks, incredulous. Virgil gives him a shit-eating grin. “Well, you’re right, we weren’t really interested in execution, but I would like to know the terms of your previous endeavors that got you sent to the city of convicts in the first place. All in due time, I suppose.” Princey dude and Tie boy cross the thirty seven and thirty six tiles, respectively, to reach Virgil and Patton,

“I’m Logan, Prince Roman’s royal advisor,” Tie boy says. He extends a hand to shake, which Patton does, while Virgil pretends not to notice it.

“And I’m His Royal Highness, Prince Roman. But you already knew that.” Princey dude winks at Patton with a handshake, taking his awe in stride, before turning to Virgil. “I guess we’ll be palace mates, then? Or just really distant roommates.” Virgil glances down at the extended hand, then back at the prince. He knows that hand, its past, its doings, and its relationship to his own. The hand shifts closer, insistent. Virgil hesitates, recalling when that hand was directed toward him, filled with pleading and regret and condemnation and goodbyes.

Virgil does not shake it.


	8. Chapter 8

“And you’re certain you haven’t discerned any information on a past encounter between your friend and Prince Roman?” Logan reiterates, taking this Patton boy on a condensed tour of the castle. If he insisted upon staying, the advisor supposed it was the least he could do to keep him occupied. From the mesquite banisters to the polished oak floorings, Logan allows himself a reprieve of pleasure in showing off the palace to someone who isn’t so used to its grandeur.

“Not a clue!” Patton replies. That incessant smile hasn’t left his face since they left the meeting room, where the prince and Virgil remains to hammer out some minute details about the current situation. Perhaps the most bothersome thing about this boy is his refusal to admire the finer points of architecture, instead favoring trivial nothings like the garden. “I’m not stupid, you know, so you can stop mentally criticizing me.” At Logan’s stunned expression, he continues, “it’s written all over your face. Just think of me like a normal person, just like you, and we’ll get along great.”

Logan draws the corner of his lip between his teeth, eyebrows furrowed. He was certain his countenance was neutral, and it wasn’t like him to let emotions slip through the cracks. Opting to instead change the subject, he turns to a still-beaming Patton and suggests a return to the meeting room. “They’ve probably figured everything out by now,” he adds, veering through a side door for a shortcut.

“We’re back!” Patton exclaims, bursting into the first available room. “Did you mi—oh no where’d they go?” The only person watching him back, a note of confusion in their eyes, is someone in a kitchen staff uniform. Definitely not Virgil or Roman, at the very least.

“Wrong room,” Logan replies, pointing to a door further down the same room. Patton follows the direction and repeats himself, this time to a more familiarly occupied area.

“We’re back!” Did you miss us?” He catapults himself into a hug with Virgil, while Logan strolls in more calmly behind. Roman sidles up next to him, watching the pair converse.

“Anything?” the prince asks. The only giveaway to his worry toward the mysterious boy is the small lines wrinkling near his mouth, likely from biting the corner of his lip. A habit he picked up from his advisor years ago, one that neither had managed to drop.

Logan shakes his head. “He’s as ignorant of the situation as you. Speaking of which, what’ve you got?”

Roman sighs, still watching Patton fawn over Virgil. “All I heard was sarcastic comments. Whatever his deal is, he’s not giving it to me. I even asked a guard to check out the library on our way down earlier for any mentions of a Virgil in the records, but nothing up until he passed a boundary. No evidence of him ever having a boundary set until he broke it. Where did this kid come from?”

“I’m not deaf, y’know,” Virgil calls, scowling beside Patton. “Just because I didn’t answer your stupid questions doesn’t mean I can’t, it just means I won’t.” Roman sticks his tongue out before making an about face and turning for the door.

“I suppose we may as well continue the tour, shall we?” he tosses over his shoulder. The other three follow, Patton bouncing between decorations as Virgil maintains a straight line path. Logan brings up the rear, schooling his features into a cool disinterest as he observes the newcomers. From the towering windows to the dangling chandeliers, nothing ceases to amaze Patton, while everything endlessly bores Virgil. Perhaps the most strange thing Logan picks up on is the few manners Virgil demonstrates, which he shouldn’t have any knowledge of. From issuing a respectful bow to the highest member of the royal guard to properly addressing the palace staff by their official title, Virgil seems to have already grasped the ropes without being handed the knot. Logan makes a mental note to look deeper into the matter later as Patton comes running up beside him. Ahead, Virgil stiffens.

“What’s your favorite part of living in the palace?” Patton asks. Detecting no malice or ulterior motives in his voice, Logan decides a dignified response is in order.

“The library.”

“Can we see it?”

“I don’t see why not. Roman!” The prince in question turns back from where he’s failing miserable at walking beside Virgil, who isn’t having any of it, changing his pace to remain alone. “To the library.”

“To the library!” Roman declares, a finger raised triumphantly in the air. Logan does his best to meet Patton’s enthusiasm with diminished politeness, more focused on Virgil’s inexplicable etiquette than the charm of a castle that’s worn off from him. One of the only places he truly cares about anymore rapidly draws near, Roman throwing the doors open with a grand flourish of the arms. Patton bursts through, roaming the aisles with Roman in tow, as Logan hangs back to run a hand over his favorite cypress desk. Lost in thought, he’s unprepared and a good deal startled when a purple clad figure materializes at his side. Logan gives a slight nod before Virgil jabs an accusing finger at his chest.

“Listen here, pal.” Contempt drips from Virgil voice, taking Logan aback to the point that he leans against the desk for support. “I don’t know what bull you people are trying to feed me, and frankly? I couldn’t care less. But if you so much as lay a finger on my friend?” Virgil punctuates each word carefully with another stab of his finger, forcing Logan back until he’s leaning on his elbows and gazing up at Virgil. “You’d better pray to whatever higher power there might be. You will stay away from him, and if anything I do to protect him from you monsters is wrong, then so help me, I will face God and walk backwards into hell.”

Roman pops his head around a bookshelf, asking if everything is still okay. Virgil flashes a thumbs up, acting as if his threat had never happened, letting it settle in Logan’s gut. Something lingers in Virgil’s eyes, something Logan has no intention of going up against. Something that terrifies him.


	9. Chapter 9

That same night, Roman sneaks out of his room, sleep eluding him in the wake of laughter and creaking floorboards. He follows the sound, careful to tread where he knows the wood has worn away, softening the thuds of his footfalls. Virgil finally clocked out a few hours prior, and Roman has to no intention of waking him. Something about the guy felt off during the meeting, a mystery Roman certainly isn’t about to pursue. He also knows this ungodly early hour is one of Logan’s favorites for roaming and thinking, so as he tugs his door shut behind him, the prince is already equipped with a daily riddle if he comes across the advisor.

Whether Logan is staked out in the library or just sleeping in for a while, Roman doesn’t run into him either way on his journey down the stairs, through the grand halls, and out the servant’s door. No way can he use the main gates, as that kind of commotion would draw far too much attention, even for him, so out the smaller door it is.

The little wooden slab opens onto an offshoot of the main gardens, revealing a sparkling fountain amidst hundreds of rosebushes and a cobblestone path. The path itself seems to branch everywhere, leading to fancy gazebos and bigger fountains and more flowers and a clearing ringed by tulips, at the center of which is a twirling silhouette. As Roman steps closer, squinting against the bright sunrise, the figure turns reveals itself to be Patton, his face tilted skyward, eyes closed, a gentle smile gracing his lips. His arms stretch out from his shoulders as he spins amidst the flower petals, warm light tracing over his skin. Under his feet, tiny pebbles skitter about, the soft clattering punctuating Patton’s silent dance like his own music. Roman shuffles closer, sending a bit of gravel flying and breaking the spell as Patton trips to a stop. With a bobbing head, he glances across the garden to look back at Roman, who’s frozen in place from the interruption. The former smiles, extending a hand in invitation. Roman takes it with a grin, surprised at Patton’s sudden strength as he’s pulled closer. Patton resumes his silent reverie, Roman seamlessly joining in tandem. They whirl each other around, the imaginary music swelling as their toes tangle and the flower petals buffet around in the breeze. The world seems to melt away, leaving only a morning’s dance and hope’s soft wind.

Roman doesn’t recall stopping, but at some point his mind registers his off-kilter surroundings, his spinning mind, and a smiling Patton beside him.

“Do you always dance with strangers in your garden, Prince Roman?” Patton asks. His eyes leap between flowers and fountains and Roman and the sunrise, trying to regain balance.

“I could ask the same of you,” Roman retorts, plopping down with a marked lack of grace on the cobblestones. “I’m not the one who got up at the crack of dawn for fun.”

“No, but you  _ are  _ the one who followed that type of person here out of curiosity, and isn’t that sort of the same thing?”

Roman nods. “Fair point. Either way, why  _ are  _ you out here so early?”

“It’s nice,” Patton sighs. He glances at the rising sun, watching it chase away the stars. “It’s fun. Haven’t you ever just wanted to take the world in? Absorb it all?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“No, I guess you wouldn’t, having always lived in a castle and everything. I don’t know, it just seemed like a nice idea at the time. I don’t know how to explain it, sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Roman whips his head around, suddenly serious. “If it makes you happy, don’t you dare be sorry.”

Patton gives a halfhearted ‘heh’ of a laugh. “You sounded a lot like Virgil just now.”

“Y’know, I really don’t know all that much about him,” Roman says, letting his voice trail off meaningfully.

“Yeah, me neither.” Roman groans internally. Opportunity lost.

“He’s cool, though. You just need to get to know him.”

“Yeah.” Roman looks at Patton, who’s still enraptured by the sun peeking over the horizon, a placid grin on his face. “You wanna head inside?” This time, Roman is the one to stand first and extend a hand, which Patton gratefully accepts. The pair heads in through the servant door, a silent agreement between them to not mention the morning’s festivities to Logan or Virgil. Maybe a silent hope to do it again.

“Nice of you to join us,” a voice remarks as Roman nudges the servant door shut. Logan steps out of the shadows beside the door, arms folded over his chest. Taken aback by his appearing out of nowhere, Roman doesn’t immediately register Logan’s exact words. Luckily, Patton recovered more quickly.

“Us?”

“Us,” Virgil confirms, slipping out from behind Logan, hoodie drawn over his head.

“What were you two doing out there?” Logan asks, with the tone of a teacher that caught some kids hanging out around the dumpsters behind the school.

“Nothing,” Roman says. Patton presses his lips together, letting them disappear into a thin white line. “What were you two doing together?”

“Nothing,” Virgil answers, his voice a perfect imitation of Roman’s with a little extra whine thrown in. His mouth curves up at the mockery.

“So breakfast?” Patton cuts in. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m starving.” Logan nods, leading the quartet down a maze of halls to the vast dining area, adjacent to the kitchens themselves. Roman stays at the rear of the group, marveling at how quickly Patton’s adjusted, as if he’d lived in the castle for years already. Virgil, on the other hand, is in such a mood with a posture so stooped that he’s almost as short as Roman. He almost acts as if being in a palace of such splendor is a chore, a punishment, instead of a reprieve from exile or execution. It wouldn’t kill the guy to lighten up a bit, either. Roman isn’t exactly thrilled about the babysitting situation, but at least he’s trying. Why is Virgil so against the castle?

“Hey Logan,” Roman calls, suddenly remembering their ritual.

“Hm?” Logan replies, slowing down to let Roman catch up.

“Okay, so it’s a thing, and poor people have it, rich people need it, but if you eat it, you die. What is it?”

“Nothing. Was that meant to be a connection to our earlier conversation?”

“No, I just needed a short one I could remember.” Roman steps into the dining room with Logan, watching Virgil and Patton take it in ahead of them. The chandeliers, the giant carpets, the absurdly long tables that make for terrible conversation capabilities. Logan sends a wave to the window where Grace is peeking out before walking over, probably to ask for some sort of breakfast. Roman moves on without him toward Virgil, determined to force him to have some modicum of fun in this place if it killed him.


	10. Chapter 10

If anyone honestly believed Virgil had slept through Roman’s escapades, they would’ve been kidding themselves. No, he wasn’t actually asleep, just finding a way to get the prince to leave him alone. Quite frankly, he didn’t care what it was, exactly, that Roman was off to do, as long as it meant some peace and quiet for himself. Virgil waits until Roman’s not-so-subtle footsteps fade away before ducking out of the room himself, setting off for the library.

Halfway there, he redirects himself for an abrupt detour to the bathroom. This castle just feels so sterile, as if it’d never really been lived in. Even the bacteria are too clean, clawing away at his skin, his hair, his clothes, all with sparkly clean claws and crystal clear syringes. He can hear them crunching, their imaginary teeth gnashing at his eardrums and chopping through his nose, the air too clean, too minty cold, too much, overwhelming and pure and awful.

Virgil slams a shoulder against a shining silver door, not letting any of the impeccably perfect material touch his skin, certain in  the back of his mind that it would be burning, would sear his skin right off. Dash to the sink, one and two and three finger flexes,  _ hm  _ stutter breath stutter breath, double finger tap one two, stutter breath stutter breath, and reach for the soap dispenser. One two three drops of soap in the right hand, one and two and three finger flexes, sink water over the left hand for one two three four five seconds. Roll the right hand over the left one two three, left hand over the right one two three, right nails against the left palm clockwise one two three, left nails against the right palm counterclockwise one two three. Right fingers left hand webbing one and two and three, left fingers right hand webbing one and two and three. Left hand twist over and off right thumb away and in, index finger away and in, middle finger away and in, ring finger away and in, pinky finger away and in. Right hand twist over and off left thumb away and in, index finger away and in, middle finger away and in, ring finger away and in, pinky finger away and in. Rinse off the right one two three four five, rinse off the left one two three four five, faucet off on off with both thumbs and index fingers. One and two and three finger flexes as Virgil elbows the door open, shaking the water from his hands. Not quite perfect, not quite right, not enough not clean not right not right not right  _ dig in the nails  _ but better than enduring another second of this castle’s artificial perfection without a little safeguard.

Continuing his initial journey, Virgil finds himself opening the grand library doors with a sleeve protecting his hand—no point in ruining his defensive shield. As the door softly groans shut behind him, Virgil heads for the section of bookshelves with studies on mythical creatures and cryptids, quickly settling himself on a table to crack it open. Triple nail run,  _ hm  _ stutter breath stutter breath, double finger tap one two one two WRONG triple nail run,  _ hm  _ stutter breath WRONG triple nail run  _ hm  _ stutter breath stutter breath double finger tap one two one two stutter breath WRONG—

The doors yawn open once more. If only the tapping had been right the first time, this wouldn’t be happening. Tie boy—Logan—slips in, his nose already buried in a book. Maybe if Virgil’s fast enough, he can duck behind a—

“Fancy seeing you here,” Logan comments, his gaze not shifting. “I would’ve thought you’d be planning a homicide.”

“Not off the table yet,” Virgil says, still sitting on the table.

“Duly noted.” Logan takes a seat at the only table of its kind in the room, moving a stack of books from beside the table leg to the top of the platform. Virgil looks back to his own book, feigning disinterest. It doesn’t work. “I know you’re curious about my research. Pardon my candor, but I’m trying to sort out your background, as  _ someone  _ is refusing to be forthcoming with such information.” Virgil sighs, flipping his book shut and tapping the cover one two three four five seven eight eleven thirteen fifteen before heading over to watch Logan. He perches himself on the chair’s backing, peering down at Logan’s careful scrawlings in a notebook. “Care to share?”

“Not really.” Virgil props a hand under his chin, giving a few sarcastic remarks at some of Logan’s notes, careful not to parcel favor in regards to their accuracy. They continue like this in near-silence, only interrupted by the shuffling of papers, the scribbling of a pen, and the tapping of fingers. The sound of distant giggles is what finally snaps them out of it, Logan drawing aside a curtain on a ginormous window overlooking the gardens.

“Patton and Roman,” hey says, letting the curtain fall back. “Shall we?” Virgil gives an undedicated grunt, lifting his shoes from the seat of the chair to let it fall back, rolling onto the floor in a backwards somersault. Logan holds an unimpressed expression before heading out the door, not waiting for Virgil, who stays behind to tear the filled pages from the notebook. The sheets crumple into his pocket as he catches up with a hopefully oblivious Logan.

To no one’s surprise, Virgil is the person to suggest hiding in the shadows while they wait, holding in a laugh at Roman’s shock. On the way to the dining room, Virgil allows his posture to worsen, fifteen tapping his fingers in his pockets. Of course he’s well aware of Roman’s indiscreet stares at his every move, but Virgil can’t really find it in himself to care, more focused on counting his steps with his breaths. The prince and advisor weren’t always so intent on observing others. Virgil wishes they had stayed that way. Inside the dining room, before Roman can catch up, Virgil heads for the fireplace set into the far wall, pulling the papers from his pocket and dropping them in. He counts out the wait as they blacken, eight seconds, looking on as they crumble and dust over the logs. Background leads gone.

“Whatcha doin’?” Roman appears at his side, a sudden change that Virgil consciously tries not to jolt at.

“Nothing,” Virgil mutters, watching carefully to make sure each shred of paper disintegrates.

“Are you sure?” Virgil turns his head to stare Roman down.

“Actually,” he leans in, “there is  _ something  _ I’ve been meaning to tell you. Something  _ really  _ important.”

“Yeah?” Roman asks, his voice tinged with some emotion Virgil can’t identify.

“It’s just, y’know,” Virgil moves closer, trailing a hand down Roman’s arm. The prince looks ready to keel over on the spot. Virgil gets up in Roman’s face, allowing himself a small grin.  _ Is it too mean?  _ “You don’t have your crown, weirdo.” Roman takes a few steps backwards suddenly, taking in a sharp gasp.

“You really, you just, were you trying to, how  _ dare  _ you!” Roman splutters.

“No idea what you’re talking about, Princey-poo.” Virgil smiles sweetly, the picture of innocence. “Now how about you putting on that crown?” Roman stomps away in a huff, probably to vent to Logan. Whatever works, since now he might at least leave Virgil alone for a while.


	11. Chapter 11

“And then he said it again!” Roman whines, repositioning the crown on his head, helpfully supplied by the more responsible Logan. “He was so mean to me!”

“Or he assumed you could take a joke,” Logan replies. While Roman prattles on about how cruel Virgil is, Logan takes a seat near the center of the giant table swallowing a majority of the space in the room. Roman slumps in a chair to his left, Patton across from the prince and Virgil facing Roman. A hint of mirth still twinkles in Virgil’s eye from tormenting Roman, certainly an enjoyable endeavor in Logan’s experience. A door swings shut behind him.

“Breakfast is served,” Grace announces, stepping aside as a flurry of people bearing plates pour in from the kitchen. Like a swarm of bees, they descend upon the table, dishes clattering and cutlery gleaming. As the servants whisk away with waves and bows, the boys return their attention to the heaping pile on the table. Enormous pancakes beside dishes of syrup, along with toast slices stacked on assorted jams and jellies, bowls of varying fruits, platters of impossibly excessive food, fit for at least five kings and three cats. Roman tears through all of it, seeming to swallow the pancakes whole, much like a vacuum would, while Virgil wrinkles his nose, turning his head from the trays of who-knows-what in front of him. Patton, having no such qualms regarding his own food, goes at everything he can reach with a vigor to rival Roman’s. Having taken a fair survey of his companions, Logan begins methodically picking apart the hashbrowns and toast on his plate. Virgil does the same across the table to some waffles and scrambled eggs, carefully slicing and separating and organizing.

Patton is the one to instigate friendly conversation, commenting on how cool the palace looks and how good the food tastes. Roman engages in the frivolity, sharing details about hidden doors and troves of jewels as Logan clarifies the more accurate historical information. Virgil remains silent, a resolute look of disinterest on his face.

“Just out of curiosity, what are we supposed to be doing now?” Patton asks, smiling as more servants bring out an array of junk food. “I mean, I get that Virgil has to be at Roman’s side under law or something, but what else?”

“We carry out our royal duties as normal,” Logan says, “with you two tagging along like fancy puppies. Nothing special, as long as you don’t do something you aren’t supposed to.” At last, a reaction from Virgil, a snicker at the implication that a perfect angel such as he could do any wrong.

“What if I make it a royal command for Virgil to tell me his deal?” Roman asks suddenly. “I’m a genius, that’s the perfect way to get it out of you!” The prince levels a finger at Virgil, triumph written across his face.

With no hesitation, not even a twitch of the eye, Virgil coolly replies, “well, then I guess I’d just have to kill you.” The surrounding servants freeze, unaccustomed to such language directed at the second-most powerful man in Exolas. Again, Patton is the one to break the silence, this time with a giggle.

“Virgil, that’s such a funny joke!” Roman joins in the laughter, probably just as desperate as Patton to change the subject.

“While I acknowledge the discomfort of what transpired, I think I have some ambivalent information to share,” Logan segues, steepling his fingers over the table. “Roman, you do realize we need to bring up the Virgil situation with your father, yes?” Roman’s fork clatters to the table as the smile vanishes from his face.

“Right. When, um, when might that be?” All of the prince’s bravado is gone, replaced by a cowering boy staring at an empty plate.

“Whenever we’re done here, provided you want to get it over with.” Roman nods once, pushing his chair back from the table.

“Okay. Shall we?” Logan sticks close to Roman’s side as they exit the dining room, Patton and Virgil trailing close behind. Without looking back, Logan is certain they can also feel the stagnating air and the sudden mood shift.

Perhaps the slowest Roman had ever moved was when he had been woken up before dawn for some sort of training. Logan literally had to drag him by his ankles around the castle until he got up on his own, still half asleep. On this walk to see the king, Roman is moving ten times slower than that, enough that Logan can safely walk backwards to look at Virgil.

“Backs straight, don’t look him in the eye, don’t speak out of turn—better yet, don’t speak at all, address him as ‘your majesty,’ kneel when you reach a distance of nine paces from his feet, and if you so much as breathe the wrong way, I will personally cut off each of your fingers and nail them to the front gates as retribution. Got that?” A death glare from Logan to Virgil, frightened nodding from Patton, an eye roll from Virgil. “Roman, do you know your spiel?” The prince slows his pace even more, if that’s possible. “You’ve previously pardoned this boy and are under a royal obligation not to disclose the circumstances surrounding the situation or its developments. If he asks  _ any  _ questions, deflect to me.” Roman nods once as they arrive at a set of grand azure doors, the only one of their color in the castle. The king’s private wing.

The instant those doors swing open, Roman’s hunched posture and worried expression melt away. In their stead are apathetic eyes, a flat mouth, a straight back, a raised chin, the picture of undaunted royalty. Logan is at his immediate right, hands clasped behind his back, strides long and elegant.

The king’s booming voice precedes him, echoing across the room before the doors have finished closing. Large and commanding, that voice has the power to topple entire cities on a whim with one word, and it’s now a sound being directed at Roman.

“Been a while since I’ve gotten to see you, Little Prince,” the voice calls. “Have you no dignity to spare me the time of day?”

“It is my mistake. Kindly accept my regrets, Your Majesty,” Roman spits his words through gritted teeth, head bowed before his father as he takes a knee. Logan sends up a silent prayer to whoever might be listening that Virgil actually paid attention for once, the advisor’s eyes and knees down as well.

“Acknowledged. Wherein lie your reasons for deigning to speak with me for once?” The sound of a throne creaking, probably the king leaning forward to inspect the people behind the prince. No one else would dare make a noise in his presence.

“My advisor will explain, if that is sufficient for you, Your Majesty.”

“I suppose it shall. Have you not rid yourself of this one yet? Grown tired of it? I recycle my advisors monthly, and this thing you keep around has lasted far longer than that. Perhaps it’s time for a change?” Roman shakes his head. “Speak, boy!”

“No, Your Majesty, I do not intend to replace him.” Hatred drips through Roman’s voice as he refers to Logan as an actual person, not the object the king assumes him to be.

“I could easily make the decision for you. A quick knife to the heart would do, and it wouldn’t even hurt, I’m sure. I doubt that thing has feelings.” Roman’s jaw tightens, but he does not refuse. “Advisor. Explain those two.”

“One was pardoned by his Royal Highness Prince Roman in the past, under private and non disclosable circumstances. He breached his predefined exile twice, and now is under his Royal Highness Prince Roman’s watch to avoid execution. His friend insisted on accompanying him, and we saw no reason to refuse, Your Majesty.” Logan recites the story like a robot, a prewritten script no one wanted to read.

“And you don’t intend to share with me the details of those circumstances?” Logan bites his lip to keep himself from reminding the king what ‘non disclosable’ means. “Unfortunate. THat will be all. You’re dismissed.” Logan waits for Roman to stand before rising himself, bowing to the king and following the prince out, a silent Patton and Virgil in tow. Roman waits until they reach a far room, leaning against a wall and releasing a half-sigh, half-cackle.

“Well, at least we’re not dead!” he exclaims. “What else have we got to do today?”

“I could go for a bathroom adventure,” Patton offers. “I don’t know where anything is in this castle, and I’d rather not get lost trying to pee.”

“Perfect! To the bathroom!” Roman pumps a fist emphatically, pushing off from the wall.

“I must admit, I’m rather surprised you didn’t do anything in there,” Logan murmurs to Virgil. “I truly appreciate it.”

“You didn’t see anything I did or did not do. Don’t lie to yourself.” Virgil heads the opposite direction of Roman, not looking back to see if Logan follows. Probably not caring.


	12. Chapter 12

Virgil knows Logan is following him, obviously. That doesn’t mean he’s about to look back to double check. If anything, he takes the opportunity to entertain himself, winding down hidden passageways and taking every detour possible to throw the advisor off. Even so, Logan’s probably guessed where Virgil’s going already. Whether or not this is the case, he doesn’t have to wait too long as Virgil arrives back at the steel doors to the kitchens.

“You comin’ or what, nerd?” Virgil asks nonchalantly, glancing back as Logan attempts to sneak up on him. VIrgil holds the silver door open, allowing a dejected Logan to slink through first. As it swings shut behind them, something metal clatters to the ground.

“Oh! Sorry, I didn’t, um, my bad,” a blue-haired girl babbles, scrambling for the fallen utensil while quickly backing away from a much taller girl. “Logan, how are you—Whoops, a newbie! My name’s, uh, it’s, are you—” she cuts herself off, staring at Virgil for a long moment. “Do I, uh—”

“Virgil,” he answers curtly. 

“Ari,” the tall one offers. Blue Hair whacks her head on Ari’s nose as she straightens, steak knife in hand. “I’m good,” Ari sighs in response to the profuse apologies that follow, her voice taking on a nasally quality. “Just gonna go. ’Scuse me.” She slips between Logan and Virgil, leaving them alone with a knife-wielding cook.

“Seriously, I could swear I—” she tries again. A swift denial from Virgil.

“Nope. Never. Got any snacks?” Virgil moves for one of the many pantry doors, raiding it for all manner of spare food. Seemingly satisfied that Virgil isn’t about to commit a double homicide, Logan leaves with a wave to Grace, his gaze lingering on Virgil.

“Great. Now that he’s gone,” Blue Hair says, turning to face the boy loaded down with food. Before Virgil can interrupt with some manner of sarcastic remark, she’s across the room, left hand slammed into his shoulder while her other forearm is braced against his neck. She spins the knife between her fingers idly, feeling Virgil’s pulse hammering under her skin. “Alright, buddy. We’re gonna try this again.” A snide comment dies in Virgil’s throat as she aims the knife at his face.

“How. Do. I. Know. You.” Each word is accompanied by a more forceful pressing of her arm to his windpipe. He feels his face slowly turning purple.

“Wish I could say,” Virgil chokes out. Anticipating another suffocation attempt, Virgil wrenches his head to the side, throwing his armful of food in Blue Hair’s face as a distraction. He ignores the immediate strangling as he slides free, out past her elbow and away from the knife. “Now, I need to be going, but it’s been a pleasure.” Virgil offers a two fingered salute, rescuing some fallen treats before dashing for the door. “Later, Grace!” he calls as the door slides shut. Only once he’s down the hall a good thirteen paces does he realize his mistake.

She never told him her name.

 

“Snagged you some fruit, too,” Virgil says to Patton later, sitting on the floor outside Roman’s room while the prince does whatever it is princes do when they get free time. Accessorizing, probably. Logan sighs dramatically from across the hall, obviously exhausted from all the friendship he’d had to endure in the last three minutes. At least, that’s what Virgil assumes. He smiles as Patton goes on about the bathrooms Roman took him to earlier, awestruck by the castle’s limitless grandeur. Nothing is beyond Patton’s adoration—toilets, thrones, even the dirt lining the gardens—and Virgil is perfectly content to hear his friend rattle off the high points.

“Logan,” the prince hisses, appearing in the doorway. He jerks his head down the hall, clearly desiring some secret meeting or something, and leaves his door open as he walks off with the advisor.

Eyeing his friend’s worryingly pronounced skinniness, Virgil slides the rest of the spoils over. “I’m gonna explore.” He hops to his feet, glancing down the hall to see the other two not looking, and ducks into Roman’s room. Granted, he’d seen it in passing, to get to the conjoined room where the prince could keep an eye on him, but he’d never gotten the chance to poke his nose around thoroughly. No time like the present.

The entire room is horrendously organized, in that no surface is without knick knacks, each with an obviously designated home. A figurine of gold in Roman’s likeness, maybe a little exaggerated in its perfection. A sword inset with silver leaning against the wall. A wardrobe full of outfits identical to the one he always wears. The one thing drawing it all together is a lifesize mural taking up the whole of one of the walls, with nothing to obscure it in the light of day. Some child, probably Roman, with that oversized crown and toy sword, beams out from the picture. Even captured in pigments and aged by years of dust, an undeniable sparkle shines in his eye. His shoulders are held in place by delicately gloved hands, leading up to a regal woman, long brown hair cascading from her head. Virgil is half convinced he could feel the individual strands if he reached out to touch it.

A half step closer, he stretches a finger, tracing the curves of the little Roman’s face. Almost real. Just as picturesque as when the portrait was first done. Still the same spark of mischief in that grin.

“What are you doing in here?” Roman’s voice demands. “Get out! Scram, you freak!” Terrified at having never heard Roman shout at him before, Virgil scurries into the attached room—his room. The door slams shut as he catapults himself to the floor, smacking his forehead against the metal bed frame. He doesn’t register the pain, or even the rapidly forming gash on his forehead, as adrenaline pumps through every last nerve.

Away away get away from here

_ Bet he’s ripping away at your name right now _

Complaining about it to Logan

_ Demonizing you to Patton _

Execution being planned

Figuring out the fastest way to get rid of you

Getting the royal guard ready to escort you away

Having arrangements made to publicize your demise to all of Exolas

_ I don’t want to die _

Just think of something else

_ Killing you killing you killing you _

Look for something, distract yourself, five to touch, touch too much

More more more mind too crowded too much too loud

No no no no no stop help make it  _ stop _

Oh god gonna die without even saying goodbye to Patton

Patton yelling somewhere calling for something

Quiet quiet gotta find quietness silence block it out

_ Right now they’re plotting your demise _

Shooting hanging stabbing

Try to forget it forget the throbbing forehead forget it  _ please _

_ Unless this was your fault _

Very well might’ve been

Why not?

_ Xenial that’s the word he was xenial to you and you offended him _

Your fault your fault your fault

Zip your lips stay quiet maybe they’ll forget about you  _ please let them forget. _


	13. Chapter 13

“Why was he in there?” Roman demands. He glares down at a terrified Patton, backed against the wall. “Well?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know, I was just—”

“Just too busy shoveling food in your face? Figures.” The prince steps back, leaving a sniveling Patton to crumple to the floor. “Logan.” With no more than a flick of the finger, the advisor takes watch over Patton, not letting him out of sight this time. Roman takes to pacing the length of his room, forty steps across. He hears the blood pounding in his ears, feels angry tears threatening to spill over. His vision narrows, focusing on the small strands of hair dangling over his eyes, jolting with each hammering of his heart.  _ A prince does not cry. You do not cry. Get over yourself.  _ With his heels wearing away at the base of his shoes, Roman allows the rapid pacing rhythm to settle him.  _ Why was he trying to touch the mural? Why was he in here at all? Where did this stupid kid come from, and why can’t you remember?  _ His breathing quickens, furious heaving gasps as he tries to keep himself from lashing out with a fist. He already yelled at Patton, what’s the use in making it worse?

Patton.

He insulted Patton.

_ Some prince you are. _

__ “Esteemed guest Patton,” Roman starts, turning back to face Patton, who sits against the door. “I would like to extend my most humble apologies for my cruel and uncalled for remark, and should hope to make amends toward repairing our relationship in the future.” Too many words at once, and the prince knows it. Too formal. Insincere. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have flown off at you, I’m in the wrong here, and I want to do better in the future. I’m sorry.” He doesn’t look at Logan, doesn’t want to know what the advisor thinks of him doing something to compromise his integrity without a consultation first. Only Patton. Focus on Patton.

“Prince Roman, of course I can forgive you! You just got a little upset, I get it,” Patton says. He takes the prince’s outstretched hand offering assistance to stand, his fingers surprisingly thin. Maybe Roman was more in the wrong than he thought for telling Patton off about eating.

“You can just call me Roman.” He ignores the disapproving sigh from Logan, still looking at Patton. “Truly, I am sorry.”

“Pr—Roman, I promise, it’s okay. Emotions are tough sometimes, but I don’t think my forgiveness is the one you need to worry about.” Patton nods his head at the other door, still shut tight. “Unless you want me to try—”

“No, I should. It’s my fault, so I must take responsibility.” Roman traces a finger along the mural as he goes, right where Virgil was not too long ago. A firm shake of the head at himself, and he continues to the closed door, hesitating only a second at the handle. It swings open without protest.

“Virgil? Virgil! Hey, Virgil!” Roman’s tone changes from trepidation to terror as he sees the frantic boy clenching his every muscle. His hands tremble, nails biting into his palms, limbs impossibly stiff. Pearls of red drip from a welt on his forehead, staining his fingers and upsetting him more. Roman watches in abject horror as Virgil shakes violently, spitting nonsense as his hands clasp together, wringing themselves raw.

“Virgil, hey, Virgil, you gotta stop,” Roman pleads, falling to his knees. He grips Virgil’s wrists, trying in vain to wrench them apart. Rather than cooperate, the body-wracking sobs from Virgil vibrate Roman’s arms, chattering his teeth as he tries to get Virgil’s attention.

“Please don’t please stop please please please,” Virgil babbles, panic lacing his words. “Please don’t I don’t wan—don’t wanna die please don’t—” he hiccups, interrupting his own evident terror. “I didn’t mean—didn’t mean to pl—mean to please no please don’t I don’t—don’t wanna die  _ please _ .” Tears bead in his eyes, tiny gems leaking free.

Out of instinct or memory or something else entirely, Roman drops Virgil’s hands and wraps his arms around the latter’s shoulders, squeezing like a boa constrictor. Roman tucks Virgil’s head under his chin, letting the shudders absorb, reverberate, and vanish. Slowly, slowly, the chattering stops, the babbling stops, the pleading stops, leaving a prince hugging a hiccuping outcast.

“Virgil, we aren’t going to kill you. I promise.” Roman doesn’t loosen his grip, still holding Virgil close. Virgil lets himself go limp, relaxing into Roman’s embrace.

“Roman, is he—” Logan freezes at the door, taking in the scene. A drained Virgil, shielded by a stone-faced Roman. “We should get going soon.”

“No. Whatever else we have today, cancel it. We need to make sure he’s okay.” Logan’s jaw drops slightly, unaccustomed to Roman refusing his advice.

“That doesn’t follow. He’s just some kid with some mysterious background. Why bother?” Genuine confusion pulls Logan’s eyebrows together, his uncertainty toward Roman painfully obvious.

“Because he’s a human being with feelings. Ergo, I care about him.”

“I won’t pretend to understand your reasons, but I suppose I’m not of a position to argue. What do you want me to do with the other one?”

“Patton.”

“Yes. Him.”

Roman hesitates, looking down at Virgil, who appears to have spent the last of his energy. “Either have him come in here, or you’re on babysitting duty for a while.” At Logan’s wrinkled nose, Roman isn’t surprised when Patton walks in shortly thereafter. He must have had some sort of experience with Virgil like this before, as he calmly lowers himself on the other side of Virgil, taking one hand in both of his. Logan doesn’t return after delivering Patton, instead heading down the hall without another word. Probably to the library. The remaining three sit in amicable silence, Patton running a thumb over the back of Virgil’s hand while Roman taps a restless boot on the ground.  _ Where did Virgil get the idea that Roman wanted to kill him? Was the castle really that bad?  _ The prince sighs, recalling the way Virgil had studied the mural. Roman with his mother, way back when. Virgil’s face was indescribable, inspecting the painting with a sort of nostalgic familiarity. Then Roman had to go and ruin it, terrifying the poor guy out of his skin. He wonders at Virgil’s terror of being killed. What had he  _ seen  _ in the city of convicts? Perhaps more curious is why Patton doesn’t behave the same. If anything, Roman would hazard a guess that Patton should’ve grown up in the castle, by the prince’s side. Certainly not in exile. Oddest of all, how he ended up with someone like Virgil.


	14. Chapter 14

When Virgil rejoins the world of consciousness, the light filtering through the shuttered windows has been long forgotten. What happened for it to get dark so fast? He runs over the day in his mind—catching Roman and Patton in the gardens, seeing the king, dealing with Grace, the mural, his screw-up—

Virgil freezes, suddenly realizing why he’s so warm. Curled up under a protective Roman, six arms in a mesh of skin, holding each other close. For all the terror the prince had caused him, Virgil certainly didn’t expect to wind up between him and Patton, especially while being the only one awake. He carefully extricates himself from the hug pile, flinching as he replaces the remaining arms around each other. He hates to leave Patton alone with the prince, but waking them up when they look so peaceful just seems cruel. Roman sighs softly, settling his head on Patton’s shoulder as his crown goes askew, the hair underneath a little messier than he’d probably prefer. Virgil darts out a hand as the glorified tiara topples, catching it before it can hit the ground. The prince was always so anal about keeping his headwear pure. In that case, probably not the best solution to have Virgil touching it with his bare hands. He places it on a dresser before shuffling out of the room as quickly as possible. His hesitation only flares up as he passes a mirror, noticing an offending welt across his forehead. Funny, he forgot he’d hit his head. Probably a soon-to-be scar, but at least it’s not bleeding anymore. Onward beyond the mirror into Roman’s room, ignoring the mural and into the hall.

The only thing preventing Virgil from wandering the castle in boredom until his legs fall off is the realization that he still smells like someone fresh out of the city of convicts. Granted, that’s what he is, but still. Off to one of the countless pristine restrooms, his fingertips already tingling at the notion of having to touch their shining perfection. Disgusting. The first one he comes across is just down the corridor from the towering library doors, clicking shut as a mop of carefully combed purple hair disappears behind them. Virgil wonders offhandedly if Logan ever realized his notes were burned. Probably. He’s a clueless moron, but not totally irredeemable.

“Am I correct in assuming that you were the one hiding obscene gestures behind your back upon meeting with me?” Virgil stops dead in his tracks before he can shoulder the door open, wincing as he glances sideways.

Who better to intercept him while smelling like a sewer than the king of Exolas?

“That’s, uh, yep, that’s me.” Virgil presses his lips together, hands behind his back as he rocks on his heels. Why isn’t the king responding?  _ Oh, right.  _ “Sorry, I meant that that was me, Your Majesty.”

“Interesting. Walk with me.” Repressing a huge internal sigh, Virgil moves to stand behind the king as he heads away from the bathroom, a pair of guards trailing them. A silence stretches on as neither speaks, the highest of the high beside the lowest of the low. Something inside of Virgil detests the similarities between Roman and this guy, how Roman could easily grow into a replica of this rat. This silent rat, to be sure, but a rat nonetheless.

An uncomfortable Virgil is not entirely without manners, which he exhibits as they pass some lady of the court. He bows low, arms wrapped around his torso, while she smiles back with a shallow curtsy.

“Did you see what she had on?” the king asks suddenly, more than loud enough for her to hear. “Showing off so much really explains her. . . situation.” He jerks his head toward a gaggle of servant boys, accompanied by a jab of the thumb at the guards behind them and a suggestive bounce of his eyebrows. Rather than verbally respond for fear of a string of curse words slipping out, Virgil gives a noncommittal grunt, heat rushing to his ears. Hopefully that lady doesn’t think he’s of the same disposition as the king, but he can’t exactly contradict him. Not if he wants to see tomorrow, that is.

“So. My son spared your life, if I recall correctly. Care to elaborate?”

“I was pardoned by his Royal Highness Prince Roman under private and non disclosable circumstances. I breached my predefined exile twice, and  now am under his Royal Highness Prince Roman’s watch to avoid execution, Your Majesty.” Virgil thanks his brain for deciding to remember Logan’s speech so well, forcing out the words with, miraculously, no stuttering. A rarity for him, in the presence of such important figures.

“I didn’t ask for a recycling of Roman’s toy’s words. I’m asking for elaboration.”

“Sorry, I’ve been told not to say anything under royal law, Your Majesty.”  _ Please don’t press it, please, I swear, if there’s any deity listening you’ll get this snob to leave me alone.  _ Virgil clenches his hands into fists behind his back.

“That stupid thing thinks it controls everyone in this palace.  _ My  _ palace,” the king mutters, exhaling a heavy sigh through his nose. “I really should tell Roman to just get rid of it, but they’re a good match for each other, I suppose. An incompetent object for an incompetent prince.” Virgil smiles tightly, forcing a controlled air stream through his lungs before he can demolish this jerk in his own castle. “Maybe I’ll ask around about you, if you’re so adamant about not cooperating. That promiscuous lady back there, to start. Some guards. The kitchen staff, perhaps.” The king stops walking suddenly, Virgil barreling a good four paces forward before he notices. “What are you still doing here? If you can’t answer my question, you’re of no use to me. Get lost. Scram, you freak!” Virgil stumbles his way past the king, running the other direction, without so much as a bow. The king’s words ring in his head, the same thing Roman yelled at him in his room. Good to know where he got it from.

The library doors don’t budge as he passes, heading for the kitchens. Empty threats or not, precautions need to be taken. Virgil moves faster, kicking the door open when he arrives—still too clean to touch. Activity bustles inside, preparations being made for some meal or another. Virgil zeroes in on Grace, the head of the kitchen working right alongside those under her. She turns expectantly at the sound of the door opening, not at all surprised when Virgil is the one to walk up, take her by the elbow, and lean in to her ear.

“We need to talk.”


	15. Chapter 15

Logan is no fool. Of course he saw Virgil take his notes before, and he certainly didn’t miss watching them shrivel up in flames. In fact, he’d expected nothing less. Planning accordingly, he’d made sure to write with a higher pen pressure, and only on one side of the pages, indenting the words onto the next. Just a quick pass over of the page with a soft pencil, and his old notes are restored, written in fine white lines amidst pale grey charcoal. Armed with his protected research, Logan left the other three in Virgil’s offshoot of the prince’s room in favor of the library and its solitude. His favorite table and its stack of books remain untouched, as no one in this castle would be dumb enough to face Logan’s wrath over a few ruffled pages. They were stupid, but not that stupid.

Logan heads for the shelves along the wall, his measly old book pile suddenly dwarfed by the mounting mystery that was Virgil. Frankly, the advisor has had quite enough of VIrgil’s nonsense, regardless of whatever inner conflicts the guy might have. He sets about pulling every manner of official records from the wall, medical documents and citizenship papers and security camera transcripts until the load wobbles well above his head. Drop the stack at his desk, return to the bookshelves, rinse, repeat.

Not too long thereafter, the cases have been thoroughly ransacked, and Logan’s arms are beginning to burn from the strain. His legs aren’t in too poor shape, though, given how often he has to chase Roman around the castle for the simplest tasks. The mountain of papers, while intimidating, also offers a decent puzzle for Logan as he organizes them by their contents, pushing the medical history files into a corner beside the obituaries. Those aren’t really any of his business to be poking about in. Give Logan a little credit, he’s still human. He knows what empathy is. With everything neatly squared away by subject, manufacturing date, shelving date, and the ranking of their authors, Logan cracks his knuckles and gets to work.

 

_ Audio Transcript - 07:03:21 / 20:56 / CAM - BSE _

_ -Scuffling sounds _

_ -A door slams _

-Hey, here it is!

-It’s the runaway!

-Look, I don’t want any trouble, okay?

-Didn’t ask what you wanted, freak.

_ -Skin hitting skin sounds _

_ -Groaning _

-You can just sit in that dumpster all night, freak!

-You’ll never be a  _ real  _ Exolecian!

-Aw, look, it’s crying!

-What a freak! Look, its hands are twitching, too.

-You better learn your place, freak.

-Yeah, cause it’s not in this castle.

_ -A door slams _

_ -Muffled sobs _

_ End Audio Transcript - 07:03:21 / 21:01 / CAM - BSE _

 

_ Audio Transcript 08:04:21 / 7:10 / CAM - TRNG _

-Just balance on one foot, pivot, and sweep out the other leg! Easy!

-Like this?

-Not quite. Try putting your weight here, twist here, and—yes, that’s it! You got it!

-I did it?

-You did it!

-What’d he do?

-He got the pivot down!

-Whoa, great job! Took me a solid month to get that one.

-Ro, it’s  _ been  _ a month.

-Right. Show me again?

_ -Scuffling sounds _

-I didn’t mean to demonstrate on  _ me _ !

-Oops.

_ End Audio Transcript 08:04:21 / 7:14 / CAM - TRNG _

 

Against his better judgement, Logan finally reaches for the medical records. With the audio transcripts getting him nowhere, it’s not as if he has much of a choice. Someone’s got to figure this out.

 

_ Medical Case Study - NEx 1852 _

Description - Tall, thin, pale, gaunt.

Disposition - Uncooperative, silent, refuses to give personal information.

Notable Mannerisms - Finger flexing, avoids “bad” numbers, counts steps in floor segments, triple fingernail runs for a “do-over,” double tapping until it “feels right,” “fifteen breathing,” leaving rooms several times to “do it right,” incessant scab picking, aligning things parallel to edges, mimicking expressions, see summary file closing for further specifics.

 

Logan squeezes his fingers over the bridge of his nose. In all of these obituaries, scandals, records, and endless pages of words, there must be something he’s missing. Something that just doesn’t add up. The terrorist attacks on the castle, the queen’s murder cover up, the disappearing servants,  _ something. _ He scrapes his chair back, snapping each of the files shut and returning them to their respective stacks. Into the hall he goes, ready to pace out the situation, before being rudely interrupted by, who else, the king of Exolas. Perfect.

“It’s you.” The king’s nose wrinkles in disgust, hatred dripping over his tongue. “The prince hasn’t offed you yet?”

“No, Your Majesty, he has not. How may I be of service to you?”

“You can take a long walk off a short pier, for starters.” After an uncomfortable pause, the kings laughs heartily. “I keep seeing your little cult of outcasts today. You now, and earlier that exile kid. That one took off running when I called him a freak, so at least he knows his place. You could learn a thing or two from him.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I could just kill you right now,” the king suggests. “Have any of my guards take you down with a wave of my hand. In fact—” He raises three fingers, holding his index finger down with his thumb, sending the guards into action. The first pins Logan to a wall by his shoulders, as the other draws a knife out of nowhere and holds it to the advisor’s neck. Logan doesn’t flinch, keeping his eyes on the ground without protest. Standard procedure.

“Just a little off the bottom,” the king murmurs. Logan is frozen in place as the edge of the blade drags across his earlobe, something warm and wet dripping to his shoulder. “Look at that, it  _ is  _ human. I would’ve never known.” The king snaps, calling off the guards and disappearing down the hall. Logan waits until their footsteps have long faded before reaching a tentative hand to his right earlobe. His fingers come away red.

He ducks into a nearby bathroom, inspecting the damage in the mirror. A little cartilage shaved off, but he’s been through worse. The scars littering his body can attest to that. With a paper towel pressed tightly to the wound, trying in vain to staunch the bleeding, Logan heads for the kitchens. Maybe Grace can help him sort out this Virgil situation. His heart sinks as he sees Virgil slinking down the hall, tossing some word over his shoulder to Grace. He shakes his head at her before vanishing. The gears in Logan’s head tumble over themselves at top speed, whirring out answers he was too distracted to notice earlier. Before the kitchen door can shut, Logan rushes forward to hold it open with a foot, staring Grace down. The look in her eyes betrays the feigned ignorance on her face as Logan crooks a careful finger at her.

“We need to talk.”


	16. Chapter 16

Patton wakes up cold and alone. The sun has chased away the night, and soft light filters through the window. He rises, uncertain as to why Virgil—or Roman, for that matter—would leave him alone like this. He isn’t like Virgil, he doesn’t instinctively know his way through the massive palace, and he could very well get lost in it. Then again, getting lost somewhere new always offers a hint of excitement, if done right. No harm in wandering for a while until he finds a room he recognizes.

Something stirs in him unexpectedly at the mural in Roman’s room. He was hardly twelve when the painted queen was killed. Panic coursed through the streets, the night drowning in wailing women and moaning men and screeching citizens. He remembers sitting at the dining room table, bouncing his feet against the chair, when his mom burst in, desperation in her eyes.

“Patton, thank the heavens,” she gasped, scooping Patton into a hug. His mother turned from the stove, mangled grilled cheese in hand. “Deirdre, are you two okay?”

“What’s so serious to get you so formal, Claire?” his mom asked. “Too excited for nicknames,  _ and _ you’re praising a religion you don’t follow?”

“The queen,” his mother whispered, still holding Patton close. “Terrorists got into the castle somehow, she’s—oh, God, Dee, she’s dead.”

Patton couldn’t say for sure what happened next. He knew his arms went numb, tingling cold beneath the surface, but beyond that? Anybody’s guess. His grilled cheese splattered unceremoniously on the floor. His mom and his mother fell quiet, holding each other against the sink as if the weight of the news was too much to bear alone. When the screaming started, that’s when everything got scary.

His mother joined him in his room, tucked him into bed while his mom took to the main floor, keeping them safe as best she knew how. Patton strained to see out the window, to get a look at the glowing orange and yellow outside, to find the source of the echoing bangs. From the look on his mother’s face, maybe it’s better he didn’t find out. It wasn’t until he saw the shaking in his mother’s hands, heard the trembling of her reassuring voice, that he got nervous. At the sound of more bangs downstairs, he felt, for the first time he could remember, true terror. His mother deciding to investigate was what sent raw, unbridled fear racing through his veins.

For every sound of shattering glass, every slamming door, every bellowing yell, Patton slid deeper under his moth hole-ridden blankets, his breath coming in soft, shallow pants. Fires raged outside for days on end, the crackling embers piercing his eardrums, undercut with shouts and sobs. It took the protests of his empty stomach to get him out of bed, bolstered by curiosity of the wretched smell coming from downstairs. In hindsight, the cool air drifting in through the front door, its lock smashed on the floor, should have been his first sign to turn back. Too little, too late.

Patton didn’t know what to cover first—his mouth, gagging at the reeking decay in front of him, or his eyes, horrified by the scene. His greying mother, limp over his mom, both frozen and colorless, save for the red blooms dotting their bodies, and the congealed cheese sandwich squished under their heads. Patton decided on his mouth first, retching into the sink, his arms wobbling as he propped himself on the counter. He didn’t notice the abandoned food scissors resting beside him, or the nick they gave his thumb. While certain to scar, it was the least of his concern.

His next mistake, one of many to follow, was in not looking at his mom as he left. In not looking at his mother as he left. In not giving them the dignity of shutting their empty eyes. In not committing their faces to memory. In recalling the final look of terror behind them. In not being able to say how much he loved them one last time. That was his biggest regret, unsolvable as he ran out the gaping door, leaving everything he knew behind. Leaving everything he loved behind.

With the broken concrete under him, it was a wonder Patton didn’t go skidding on his face. Adrenaline, maybe, that kept him on his feet, carrying him through the city. Desperation, perhaps, that made him ignore the sign notifying the transition from his city to that of the convicts. Sheer fright, possibly, that drove him through the masses of exiles, to the other end of the city, to the little brick shack tagged with a red swear word. At last, the adrenaline crash slammed into Patton, leaving him propped against the letter “F” on the wall, gasping for air. Too tired to realize all he’d just run away from, he didn’t notice the fresh paint staining his shoulder or the crescent cut on his thumb, but these problems would all be dealt with in due time.

The shuffling of feet over dry grass is what finally drew Patton’s attention, to a lanky boy rounding the building from some unseen door. Manners overpowered his worry, prompting the former to stick out an inviting hand.

“Hi, I’m Patton.” The boy stared at the hand, swimming through the air toward him. He seemed to think it was a viper, ready to strike.

“Virgil.”

Looking at the mural now, Patton wonders if he would take it back. Give up the stranger at the building, with his little tendencies and sardonic humor, to get Mom and Mother back. Sacrifice a treasured friendship he’d built for the parents he hadn’t seen in years. The queen’s painted face, warm and welcoming, mocks him silently. This woman he’d never met had taken everything from him, and it wasn’t her fault. She had  _ died _ , Patton  _ knows _ that, but his festering resentment was growing hard to ignore.

His eyes drop to little Roman in front of her, beaming brightly. A stab of guilt rams through Patton. Roman lost a loved one, too, and Patton had never stopped to wonder if Roman was okay. He had never considered that Roman was battling the same torment. The grinning child in the mural is but a ghost in the prince now, a whisper in the air more than a presence demanding attention.

Patton bites the inside of his cheek, glancing back at the queen. He fights back tears at her resemblance to Mom, despite them looking nothing alike. It’s in the dancing eyes, the determined jaw, the proud shoulders. The undeniable ferocity with which she’s protecting Roman, even in a still image. Emotions, dangerous feelings and repressed grievances, wash over him, unbidden and unwelcome. Why did she have to die? Did she know, even in death, that she’d cost him everything? Would she have cared?

It takes the slapping of running feet on polished tiles to tear Patton away from the mural. He pops his head out of Roman’s room to see Logan pursuing Virgil down the hall, utter calm in his sure-footed strides. The relaxation in his face is eerie in contrast to the obvious terror in Virgil’s eyes. As he tries to round a corner, his shoulder clipping the wall, Logan calls out to him.

“We need to talk.”


	17. Chapter 17

In hindsight, confronting Grace might not have been the  _ best  _ idea Virgil had ever come up with. Knowing the cook, she probably rattled everything he said off to Logan right after. Regardless of what was or was not said, here he is now, sprinting away from the pursuing advisor, probably looking all the more guilty for it.

“I just need to speak with you, Virgil. If that is your real name, of course,” Logan says. Virgil flinches,  _ how did he find out damn it Grace what did you do.  _ It’s a small distraction for him, but it’s enough, as Virgil misses the wall that appears in front of him, delivering a full stop to his knee. He stumbles, feet flying out from under him, as Logan seizes the opportunity to catch up. Virgil groans, rolling on the ground and cradling his knee in agony while the advisor looms overhead. Without hesitation, Logan plants a foot on Virgil’s chest, holding him still. Virgil’s eyes zero in on a scabbing earlobe, immediately more concerned with its origin than his own predicament.

“I want answers, and you’re going to give them to me.” Logan lets his head hang lower, staring Virgil down. A well-placed arc of spit splatters on Logan’s cheek, Virgil smirking triumphantly beneath it. The wrong move, perhaps, as the unperturbed advisor swipes it away, pressing his foot down harder. Virgil begins to choke for air.

“Hard. . . t’answer. . . ‘f’can’. . . bree,” he forces out. As Logan relaxes his stance slightly, Virgil draws in his undamaged knee, kicking the oppressive leg up and away. Logan’s arms pinwheel as his balance escapes, taking Virgil with it. He scrabbles over the polished tile, feeling the clean bacteria burrowing into his skin. A knife sails past his face, planting itself in the tile seam not two inches from his nose. Logan follows closely behind, snatching the cuff of Virgil’s pant leg with white knuckles. The smooth floor offers no purchase for Virgil’s desperate clawing as Logan drags him back. The knife is a little more forgiving, sliding free of the floor into Virgil’s hand. He lashes out wildly, feet and elbows and knees and teeth and knife splayed in every direction. Something sharp connects with his knuckle, ruby red dripping down quickly. Logan winces, running his tongue over his front teeth, and spitting out the taste of Virgil’s skin. A small window, but an opening nonetheless.

Virgil delivers a harsh jab of his elbow up from under Logan’s chin, sending his teeth chattering and his tongue throbbing, sandwiched on impact. Virgil’s arm doesn’t feel too hot either, taking the brunt force of a bone to it, as well as five smaller ones digging into his fingers not five seconds earlier. He surges forward, shaking it out and brandishing the knife in his other hand, ready to sink it into Logan. Not to kill, but enough to incapacitate. Enough to escape.

Logan spits blood on the floor, ignoring how it rolls over the shining tiles as he tucks into a backwards somersault, dodging the advancing Virgil. A string of curse words spills out, mangled with saliva and blood, as Logan rolls to a crouch. Virgil pounces, knife drawn back, and tackles Logan to the cold floor, pressing a colder blade to his neck. His mind has gone blank.

“Go on. Do it. Dig it in. Do it,” Logan mocks. “It’ll just prove me right.” Virgil pants heavily, forcing a stream of air through his nose. “You were a scared little kid then, and you’re a scared little kid now. Let’s see if you’ve learned from history, shall we?”

It’s not a prince that interrupts Virgil, stopping the blade before it can stain itself pink. It’s not a king that forces his arm to hesitate. It’s not a cook that makes him rock back on his haunches, staring at his hands in horror.

“Virgil?”

It’s Patton.

The knife clatters to the floor as Virgil takes shaking steps away from Logan, one, two, three. His hands are stained  _ there’s red everywhere _ his nails are ringed in fiery black  _ oh god no _ his fingers tremble  _ dirty again it’s everywhere _ his palms wring themselves out  _ dirty dirty red blood everywhere oh god it’s not coming off it’s not getting clean please please no not again it was an accident please. _ Virgil trips over himself as he sprints down the hall.

“Virgil, wait!” Patton cries. His voice is drowned out by the sound of a blade whistling past Virgil’s ear, embedding itself in the wall. Virgil rounds a corner, feet sliding beneath him, and collides head first with someone coming from the other direction. The welt on his forehead pounds angrily in time with his heartbeat, but of course the person he rammed into seems perfectly fine.

“Virgil, hey, it’s okay, you’re okay, what’s wrong?” It’s Roman, gripping each of Virgil’s wrists to keep them separated, to halt the trembling. “Talk to me.” Virgil sees the horror cross Roman’s eyes at his stained fingertips, red dust that will never scrape off. He knows his own face is a mirror, terror and disgust and resignation dancing through his head. The smacking of Logan’s running feet hammers into his head, accompanied by the softer shuffling of Patton from behind.

Virgil sinks to the ground, wrists still held aloft by Roman, who turns them over curiously. Someone asks what’s going on, but Virgil doesn’t register who it was. He squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head, hands limp in surrender. Logan figured it out, that much is certain, and now he’s done for. Execution would be a mercy for scum like Virgil.

“I’m sorry there was just too much it was an accident I swear I was trying to protect them I didn’t mean to everyone was yelling and chasing because I messed up again and it’s all my fault and it was all my fault and you’re all gonna hate me just like they did and I just—” Smack.

Virgil’s head wrenches to the side, his cheek tingling and inconsolable, with Roman still inspecting his torn knuckles. Logan’s hand hovers in the air, palm bright pink from the impact.

“Either you pull yourself together and explain, or I will.” Virgil exhales.


	18. Chapter 18

Roman has heard a great many tales in his life, none strong enough to throw him completely off of his game, but a few came remarkably close. Stories of stolen children in the streets of his kingdom, murder over unrequited love, attempts made on the lives of those he held dear. Information that made him pause, maybe even stop in place entirely, to mourn the slow trickling of humanity down the gutter. Terror and triumph and tragedy, mixing together in a wretched blend of malice, generously donated by his own people.

Beyond words, Roman has often witnessed firsthand the effects of these actions on their victims. Cracked and swollen lips, puffy eyes hidden behind a defensive shoulder, ragged fingernails bitten down to the bed, bruised limbs, ghosts of a voice that once shouted with joy, now whispering in despair. Actions begetting suffering begetting actions, lashing out in anger and leaving history behind and fleeing everything someone once knew for an uncertain future, away from the menace of the past. Starting new relationships in the stead of old ones torn asunder, creating new life in protest against the decimation of another, renewing foolish hope when faith is left shattered. Roman had seen it all, and he would see worse. Merely a fact of life. People live, people damage, people suffer, people leave. The inexorable way of the world.

One instance in particular had long troubled Roman, since one of his very first AKI’s, back when the king still sat in on them with him. Back when his mother still walked the flowering fields of Exolas, before it had become a dilapidated hellhole. Clearly in Roman’s mind stood the memory, poking him in the quiet hours of the morning amidst his racing thoughts. A pack of adults ushered in all at once, their eyes sunken and hollow, their faces furrowed and weary, their mouths set in trembling frowns and furious white lines. They aired their complaints of the state of affairs in the outer regions of Exolas, of murder and kidnapping and all manner of unspeakable horrors. Their stories of suffering were written in their wrinkled foreheads, their beaten-down postures, their hopeless gazes. What Roman had believed to be the worst instant, when the king asked him to solve the situation, couldn’t hold a candle to what he witnessed next.

A quartet of adolescents, the oldest no more than fifteen, split the sea of shouting citizens, toting a small wooden box.  _ Our sister _ , the eldest murmured.  _ We never got to say goodbye.  _ Roman’s heart shattered, absorbing the hurt of the broken few in front of him. Compared to their pain, the back of the king’s hand upon his head was nothing.  _ Deal with it.  _ Deal with it. An instruction. That much, the prince could manage.

_ A city of convicts. A place to put those committing the heinous acts. A place to keep them out.  _ The first time Roman was the direct influencer of a solution, and he spent it isolating his people. At least it got the king’s approval, and that has to count for something, right?

Of course, the king’s approval never lasted long in the walls of the palace. For example, when Grace elbowed her way into the kitchens without his consent. Technically, Roman let her in, but technicalities were meaningless when it came to the king. Unless they were to his benefit, such as specific time frames for appointments, or the precise location of his guards at any given moment. Say, perhaps, a guard had stolen away to the back of the kitchens without reporting his absence and perhaps Grace was there at the same time, and perhaps nobody happened to be watching, and perhaps her cries were drowned out by the whirring of machines in the kitchen, and perhaps she locked herself into her work to try to forget, and perhaps she broke down at Roman’s feet a week later, and perhaps the guard shrank in size by one person, and perhaps the king never found out. All purely hypothetical, of course.

And if Roman helped Grace burn the torn clothes? If he held her in the early hours of the morning as her body shook with sobs? If he shielded her from Ari when Grace’s cheeks flushed in embarrassment and unfair shame? If he started teaching her to fight so it would never happen again? Well, that’s just the way things were in the palace, every horror held close to the heart, released only in tremulous whispers to a willing ear, always fearful of a wandering eye. Hypothetically, of course.

So maybe Roman had seen some things that made themselves at home in his thoughts, tracking in mud and misery. And maybe he would admit, in the quietest hours, that they never really left. And maybe he would shed a tear or two when he was alone, but never in public, never in the face of prying eyes, because princes don’t cry.

Bar minimum, they were events permanently cemented in the deepest recesses of his soul, and in the years since, Roman had seldom encountered such news to rattle him to his very core. Looking now at Virgil, he wonders whether he’d rather keep it that way, drop the shaking hands and leave him to deal with his problems on his own. He releases Virgil’s wrists, watching the hands wipe themselves off on a knee. Virgil clenches his fingers into fists, gritting his teeth before looking up at Roman. All emotions scatter from his face, leaving only a cool impassiveness to rival Logan’s.

Virgil rises, shouldering Logan in the face on his way up, and not caring as the advisor stumbles back. With the air of a petulant child, he sweeps into a low bow, gazing at Roman through his shock of purple bangs. “Prince Roman of Exolas, your Royal Highness.” Roman nods slightly, uncertain how to react. All of the fear seems to have drained from Virgil, leaving only an empty husk.

“I killed the queen.”


	19. Chapter 19

When someone says ‘all hell breaks loose,’ it’s rarely an image people will stop to consider in its entirety. Sure, it’s a common phrase in the English vernacular, but the actual chaoticism is often the unsung hero in its own right. Demons and sinners and devils and every other creature to have been banished to the fiery pits, all escaping captivity together, would destroy a good deal more than the simple phrase might initially suggest. A pandemic panic as terror would take to the streets, rampaging the world over and leaving a blazing trail of fury behind it. Even the ashes themselves would disintegrate, until the mightiest phoenix could not rise from them.

So no, all of hell did not break loose when Virgil decided to be honest for once. Maybe a few cages unlocked, a door clicked open, but only a resounding silence hangs in the air. He holds his bow a moment longer, still looking up at a dumbfounded Roman, before lowering his head and letting out a calm breath, the first in a long while.

“I suppose an execution is in order?” Virgil doesn’t know how, but the world has stopped rotating, the air stagnating before his words can vibrate the molecules between his mouth and Roman’s ears. Everything is frozen, his mind, his hands, his emotions, his heart, leeching the life from the land around him. Nothing moves, save for the gentle fluttering of his bangs from the breeze of his breath, swaying back and forth, a crashing ship in still waters.

Slowly, over the course of what seems like centuries, Roman’s face shifts, from pale pink to sickly white to tinted green, from blank to shock to disgust to horror. Virgil watches that strand of hair, forward and back, back and forward, keeping time with his eerily calm heart. He wonders fleetingly if he forgot to double tap earlier, if he forgot to fifteen breathe, and the small mistakes stole his soul away. He releases a long sigh, feeling air rush through his still lungs in time with the numbers, one two three four five seven eight eleven thirteen fifteen. The world warps, spiraling in until all he sees is a pinprick of Roman’s face amidst a canvas of darkness. The cone of light shrinks, smaller and smaller, before everything splits and splinters and shatters. The blackness crumbles away, and Virgil is thrown back into reality, time sprinting ahead without waiting for him to catch up.

His torso pitches forward, catapulting his balance across the room, too fast for him to thrust his hands out to break his fall. He lands square on his nose, hard, and stays down, the whirl of time roaring in his ears. Seconds or minutes or days or months or years or millenia whip over his head, numbers spinning by at dizzying speeds. Virgil’s head pounds, trying to keep up, but to no avail. The heaviness of time presses his face into the floor, apparent centrifugal force denying any chance of even looking up.

After some impossibly unknowable period of time, milliseconds or eons, or even in the unreachable space behind the present for all he knows, Virgil feels the racing world slow down, back to its normal speed. His pulse pounds, drumming against his temples with the fervor of thousands of men marching to a lost war. With his breaths coming in short spurts, Virgil slowly raises his head, surveying the scene. Everyone has deserted him. Even Patton.

At last, his mind catches up to his body, and everything goes numb. He just told the literal Crown Prince of Exolas that he’d committed treason. He openly confessed to murder, and didn’t even have the courtesy to elaborate on the circumstances. They were probably telling the king and his guards while Virgil remained prone on the icy tiles. His execution was probably being organized, the plans already underway. Patton might already be in chains, if they thought him an accessory.

Patton might be dead.

Patton might be gone.

Virgil might have just given his only true companion a death sentence.

Virgil might have killed Patton.

It’s this thought, this worry, this outright terror, that forces Virgil to rise, his shoulders aching under the weight of time itself. He stoops lower, posture even worse than usual, determined to bear the burden until he found Patton. And if Patton was already dead and gone? Virgil would have no qualms about letting time suffocate him.

Maybe if he just fifteen taps right, one two three four five seven eight WRONG one two WRONG one two three four WRONG one two three four five seven WRONG one two three four five seven eight eleven thirteen fifteen, Patton will be okay, and they can both get out of this awful palace and back to a life of squalor in the city of convicts. Virgil rounds a corner, tapping frantically as he rams into something face first, one two three four five seven eight eleven WRONG one two three four five seven eight eleven thirteen fifteen. Roman looks down at him, his face expressionless. Virgil feels sweat pouring from his palms, flex in out in out in big wipe, avoiding the prince’s gaze.

“Is it true?” Roman murmurs at last. His face remains unreadable. Virgil nods minutely, gluing his eyes to the eyes to gluing hi eyes to the floor one two three four five seven to the floor one two three four five seven eight eleven thirteen gluing his eyes gluing gluing his eyes glue glue glue gluing his eyes to the floor one two three four five seven eight eleven thirteen fifteen. “Why?” Something resembling emotion creeps into his voice, cracking on the loaded question. Why kill the queen, why can’t Roman remember, why didn’t Virgil say so sooner, why why why.

“I’m sorry, I never meant to let meant to meant meant meant to let it get meant to let meant to let it get this bad,” Virgil whispers, the words wobbling like a tower of cards. He sinks to the floor, shoulders aching under years of guilt and time and misery, all too heavy for the scrawny bones under them.

“Virge. Hey.” Roman kneels at his side kneels at his kneels at his side, refraining from touching his quivering arms. “Take all the time you need, and I’ll still be here through it, but I expect answers. You don’t just get out of this, okay? I deserve an explanation. You owe me that much.” Virgil nods one two three four five seven eight eleven thirteen fifteen through quiet hiccups, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. The world spirals into black, overlayed with bright brown checkerboard swirls, dancing circles around his mind. One two three four WRONG one two WRONG one two three four five seven WRONG one two three WRONG WRONG WRONG.


	20. Chapter 20

It’s all Logan can do to keep himself from breaking into a sprint through the unending maze of halls. After Roman took off, with patton in hot pursuit, the advisor was left to watch the collapsed murderer, a difficult job to do when he was busy following someone else. In hindsight, having the killer confess out in the open probably wasn’t the best plan, given the skittering of feet that shortly followed. With years of listening, Logan had long cemented in his mind the knowledge that those shoes were standard among the royal guard. The quivering convict is probably hiding in a corner somewhere by now, after Logan abandoned him to spy on the eavesdropping guard.

So now, here sprints the advisor, in a mad near-panic, a race against time to find the killer before the king can get there with his guards first. He lets his feet skim noiselessly over the tile floor, arms carefully bent at the elbow to tuck in and turn at a moment’s notice. Worst come to worst, the murderer dies and Logan walks, but that’s not a punishment the king has jurisdiction to order. This is Roman’s decision, and Logan would sooner crawl through hell to bring the convict back if it suited Roman’s idea of justice.

“Logan?” a voice murmurs. He skids himself to a stop, fist raised in a prepared attack, before seeing Patton hunched in a ball on the floor. Glasses askew, tear stained cheeks, eyes empty, Patton is the poster child for an emotionally distraught mess, but not the one Logan needs to deal with right now. He takes off, shoes expertly silent as he darts away, a technique learned years ago out of necessity for self-preservation. He wonders fleetingly if he’ll regret abandoning Patton.

“—imbeciles! I want him hung in the streets of Exolas! I want his entrails dangling from every building in every corner of the city!” a voice booms, not three halls away. Logan freezes before passing the corner, pressing his back to the wall as the voice grows louder. “He will be an example to anyone that dares to cross me! Someone’s dying tonight, and you’d better hope his head is the one to roll.” The king storms past, severe hatred set in the twist of his lips, an attitude that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Logan has to wonder whether the king is being dramatic for the sake of appearances, but remains hidden regardless.

As the king and his entourage of guards vanish down the next hall, Logan slips in the opposite direction. Maybe he can find the assassin first, try to preserve Roman’s honor in taking him down. His movements grow frantic as hall after hall, corner after corner, nook after cranny turns up nothing. Warm, mocking sunlight streams through a window, glancing off of a door handle, reminding him to pat his hidden belt, two knives sheathed within. Finally,  _ finally _ , he spots the white-clad prince crouching beside the trembling felon, neither touching nor speaking. While the scene solidifies in his mind, Logan’s peripherals pick up on the flashing light flying straight for the criminal’s exposed heart.

Impulse more than anything is what drives his motions, everything happening before he can decide what to do for himself. No time to reach for a knife, Logan darts forward with his right hand outstretched, fingers splayed as they collide with Roman’s cheek. He barely registers the sensation of the prince’s skin giving way, more focused on the blade protruding through the back of his hand, the handle buried snugly in his palm. The killer’s eyes widen, realizing belatedly how close to death he was, before jumping to his feet, fists raised in defense. Amidst the shock, Logan takes a moment to wonder what kind of idiot would lift fists against blades. Probably the same kind of idiot who would toss a knife to an admitted murderer, as Logan does without hesitation. He isn’t quite certain what makes him do it, but the affirmation in Roman’s eyes is reassuring, despite the convict catching the knife and kicking it behind him, the handle’s momentum spinning it to clatter against the wall. He shoots Logan a look.

“Didn’t you ever learn to be careful with sharp objects? Someone could get seriously hurt.” He avoids eye contact with said sharp object as it drips red from the advisor’s hand. “Not to mention, I’m probably the last person you’d want to give a weapon to.” Logan rolls his eyes, using his uninjured hand to get the other blade from his belt and thanking his lucky stars for being ambidextrous. Perhaps against his better judgement, Logan curls his right hand into a fist, gripping the handle as the blade forces its way ever deeper.

This all passes in a matter of moments, the trance finally interrupted by an official-sounding voice not twenty feet away. “Stand aside. We have direct orders from the king to dispose of this scoundrel.” A trio of guards brandish deadly sharp swords, each pointed at the assassin. “Prince Roman, if you would.” They make a synchronised ‘scoot aside’ gesture, waving their hands like a flock of pigeons. Roman does nothing of the sort, instead rising to stand in front of the felon.

“Not until Virgil has a chance to explain.” Roman steadies a hand on the hilt of his own sword, enough of a warning to get the point across, but not quite a threat enough to be considered treason. Not yet, anyway.

“Prince Roman, we are going to have to order you to stand down,” the center guard says, taking a step forward.

“Stand  _ this _ ,” Roman shoots back, drawing his sword with a dramatic flourish. The convict shifts his footing into a defensive stance, his knuckles going white as Logan expertly flips a knife around in his good hand, paying no mind to the substance oozing from the other. When the first guard moves, Roman nods sharply, dashing to the right as Logan lunges left, the killer staying in place, fists still raised. He ducks as the guard launches himself forward, flying over the crouched boy and skidding across the tile.

Logan slashes out with his free knife, keeping the other drawn in and and ignoring the hot liquid dripping down his wrist. The guard drops to the floor, snatching Logan’s ankle and ripping it out from under him. The resounding smack of his head on the floor hurts a considerable amount, to say the least. He lifts his other foot, smashing the heel on the guard’s hand with a sickening crunch. As the guard grabs his throbbing fingers, not trained enough to know how to block out the pain, Logan feints another swipe of his left blade, allowing the barest of smiles to creep across his face. The guard, just as planned,  throws his torso back, his knees and head shifting forward to counteract his thrown balance. Logan’s grin grows to show some teeth as he twirls to get behind the guard, swinging out his bent arm. The back of his hand leads with a blade to slice through the air, catching and sinking into the small of the guard’s back, sending the man to his knees and taking Logan’s hand, along with the rest of the advisor, down with him. He feels the blade resist against something before plunging deeper, and curls his fingers in to keep the knife from dislodging from his hand. At the familiar crunching sound of a severed spinal cord, Logan tugs his knife out, ignoring the turning of his stomach when he sees his blood darkening the guard’s rapidly soaking shirt.

Leaving the guard to lay prone on the cool tile, Logan turns to see how the prince and the murderer fared. The convict perches carelessly atop his opponent, running his eyes over his fingernails with a vague disinterest. The advisor looks over just in time to see Roman bring the hilt of his sword down on the third guard’s head, catching the dead weight and gently lowering him to the floor.

“What took you guys so long?” the killer asks, still examining the dirt under his fingers. He picks some of it out with the knife he kicked away earlier, flicking the specks off as a tiny act of rebellion against the pristine palace. “Whoa there, Knifehand, don’t get all in a huff about it. Not like I’ve stabbed you in the back yet.” He smirks lightly, the bravado doing a remarkable job at masking his trembling hands and carefully patterned breathing.

“I want answers,” Roman says, cutting off the same thing Logan was about to say. “I want them now.”

“Oh, Little Prince, you’ll just have to wait, won’t you?” Roman flinches at the nickname, drawing a veil of emotionlessness over his face before turning around.

“Your Majesty.” He lowers into a bow as Logan does the same, not bothering to hide his speared hand. The murderer continues fidgeting with his nails, making direct eye contact with the king as he does so. Though he’d never admit it, Logan can’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction at the disrespect, an innate desire for his own bravery to do the same.

“Hand him over,” the king orders, a slight laugh tinting his tone. “No more of these little games, Little Prince.”

“Sorry, but I don’t think I can do that, Your Majesty,” Roman says to the floor. As the adrenaline wears off, Logan focuses his effort on not wincing in pain over his aching hand.

“I might have something that changes your mind.” Logan regrets glancing up the moment he does so. Two guards step forward, Patton’s arms locked in their steady grip. He gazes at the convict with pleading eyes. The king crooks a finger at the killer, raising the other hand in the air to signal one of the guards to hold a blade to Patton’s neck. “Your life, or his.” Patton inhales sharply as the edge inches closer. The assassin’s knife clatters to the floor.

“Virgil, don’t do it. It’s okay.” All of the previous feigned pride has melted from the convict’s face, leaving only a scared little boy. 

“Patton, I can’t—I have to—no, Patton, oh my god,” the killer whispers. His voice trembles, cracking with each word. The blade draws ruby pearls from Patton’s throat. “Stop, please, oh my god, stop, stop, just stop,” the murderer begs. He looks little more than a child abandoned at a doorstep. “I’ll do it, just leave him alone,  _ please _ .” His hands go above his head, wobbling precariously as he takes hesitant steps toward the guards. Roman and Logan look on in abject horror.

“Virgil, you can’t,” Patton begs. “Don’t do it.” His face crumples as the king snatches both of the boy’s wrists in one hand, tears threatening to spill from Patton. “You can’t leave me.” The killer, the victim, the boy, Virgil, furrows his brow, allowing a single jewel to drip down his face.

“I have to.”

“Virgil,  _ please _ .”

“I’m sorry, Patton.”


	21. Chapter 21

Logan was an early hire, sure, but not early enough to have seen whatever transpired between the prince and the assassin so many years ago. In all likelihood, he probably showed up right after the incident, which would explain why everyone in the palace was so wary of him. The only person to welcome him with open arms and a warm smile had been the prince himself, but even he behaved like a wounded deer tossed into a busy city square. Just like everybody else he met, the circumstances of Logan’s arrival were shrouded in mystery, a locked box for which there was no key.

All he knew, all  _ anyone  _ knew, was that a skinny boy with a dirt streaked face and perfectly pressed clothes had shown up at the front gate, requesting a formal audience with the prince. A two day turnaround, harshly scrubbed skin, and Logan was trailing behind the prince to rattle off his responsibilities, shortly taking the lead to direct from in front. When he wasn’t debating hot issues with fuming adults, left dumbstruck at his clearly superior intelligence, or discussing the prince’s next task, Logan trained.

In a spare moment, he would vanish to the training room, with its meager supply of weapons, as was his wont to do. His demands for more swords, better knives, an advancement in the castle’s defense, were all met rapidly and precisely, an overabundance of supplies to keep the new advisor happy. After all, he had been the one to defend the prince from what would’ve been an assassin without spilling a drop of his own blood, rocketing him to the coveted position of ‘keep complacent at all costs.’ Who would deny the street urchin with a heart of stone, hands of destruction, and a mind to rival the highest held esteem of Exolas?

Oh, right. Logan was a murderer by his second week of being in the castle, if that wasn’t clear. He saw the glint of something sharp in a stranger’s pocket, watched them lurk through the shadows a few paces behind the prince. His face a shroud of precision and predation, Logan halted the prince with a single raised hand, the other frozen in anticipation. He counted the moments on his fingers, five, four, three, two, one, before hooking an ankle around the prince’s knee, sending him crashing to the floor. As the metal of his crown pinged against the tiles, a pair of shocked eyes stared at Logan’s cool and collected ones. He slid a knife from his hidden belt, sidestepping the attacker as they flew over the prince. The skidding of their jaw was distraction enough for Logan to pin them down with a knee to the back. With a methodical insertion of his little knife, the attacker’s spine splintered, and they remained motionless on the floor.

“The guards should find them soon enough. Up.” Logan turned to the prince, extending a hand to help him to his feet. Despite his preparation for every debate, every royal duty, every fight, Logan still found himself secretly surprised when the prince grasped his hand tightly, yanking him into a hug as he stood.

“Thank you, Logan,” the prince whispered. Logan fought the urge to stiffen, resting an awkward, reassuring hand on his companion’s back.

“It’s just what I do, my prince.”

“Roman.”

“Roman.”

\-------

“As the king of Exolas, I hereby detain you, Virgil, and redact your privileges to have rights including, but not limited to, speaking, acting, and moving. Under royal law, I now revoke your right to live.” Virgil closes his eyes, dropping his head and resigning himself to his fate.

“Virgil, you  _ can’t _ ,” Patton whispers. The king cuts off whatever Virgil was about to say with a twist of his free hand, as if he were a conductor silencing his performers. He quirks his eyebrows, unimpressed.

“On your knees, rat,” the king hisses. Virgil drops obediently, hands still solidly gripped in the king’s. Logan tries to ignore his brain pleading to turn away, all too bothered by how similar the pair looks now to how Roman held the kid earlier. It’s the eyes, just the eyes, that are different. Confused concern traded for a cursory glare, still cast down at the same trembling boy, the same arms held above the same head, the same tears threatening to fall.

Logan’s hand twitches around the knife piercing it, the extremity slowly going cold as more red liquid drips away, a puddle forming at his feet. He doesn’t move, watching the king toss his robes around with a free hand, the other squeezing Virgil’s wrists until the trembling fingers turn red. White fingerprints appear as he adjusts his hold. Letting his eyes drift over, Logan notices Roman bouncing between his feet, hands fluttering around the hilt of his sword. The advisor gives the prince a sharp shake of the head— _ don’t intervene. _

__ “I’m sorry,” Virgil murmurs, bracing himself for the smack that collides with his face. What could very well be his last words, and he spent them apologizing? Whoever was supposed to get the apology remains unknown, as his eyes stay shut, head wrenched to the side from the blow.

“Good riddance,” the king spits, having finally found a blade, but Virgil evidently isn’t finished quite yet.

“Long live the king!” he shouts, ripping his arms free and rolling away as a knife lodges itself in the floor where he’d been mere moments prior. Both guards holding Patton go down in a whir of blue, the captive too surprised to crawl away.

“Rat!” the king shouts, yanking his knife from the tiles.

“You know what they say,” Virgil replies, a shit-eating grin spreading over his face. He flashes a smirk to Logan as the blue streak screeches to a stop at his side, a mop of hair concealing a matching smile.

“Always have backup, right, Logan?” Grace winks, spinning a pair of blades between her hands before tossing one to the advisor. It fits snugly in his right hand, the left still clenched and draining.

Logan quickly regains his composure, watching a horde of guards swarm in from every direction as his companions close in quicker. Virgil shoves Patton into the center of the forming circle, a human shield consisting of a prince, a cook, an advisor, and an assassin. As one unit, they fend off the advancing guards, swords and knives and blades and fists flying in flashes of flesh and silver. And Patton in the middle, ever protected amidst it all.

Guard after furious guard goes down at Logan’s feet, his left hand aching but swinging. His eyes dart back to the king, who observes the battle from afar, arms folded and chin raised haughtily. By the stiffening in Roman’s shoulders at the king’s occasional movements, the prince is watching him, too. Dread filters through Logan as he glances at Roman slicing through guards effortlessly, his gaze never straying too long from the king.

Slowly but surely, and not without a few injuries, the quartet beats back the onslaught, knuckles raw and clothing torn. The flood of guards lessens, streamlining for the rapidly fading Logan, his blood loss growing to worrying levels. Virgil cuts in, elbows jabbing and knees rebounding, taking down five guards to every two of Logan’s. “Always have backup,” Virgil murmurs, nudging Logan in the side.

Soon enough, the advisor drops back to keep watch over Patton as the other three spread out, but not before the prince can tear off part of his sash and toss it to Logan. As Patton busies himself wrapping the cloth around Logan’s hand—not taking the knife out for fear of worsening the wound—the advisor swings his free arm about, deterring any would-be attackers.

The onslaught peters out, leaving just one guard for a snarling Virgil to deal with. He goes down with a single swing of the fist, but it’s not enough—Virgil drops with him, sending blow after blow at any exposed and undamaged skin. It takes the full force of Grace, Roman, Patton, and half of Logan combined to tear him away, punching at the air in fury. Logan ducks, narrowly avoiding a stray elbow while tightening Patton’s makeshift tourniquet with his teeth. Kicking and hollering, Virgil makes grabby motions at the quivering guard, who can barely pull himself together enough to scoot away.

“Virgil, that’s enough!” Roman shouts over the racket Virgil makes, taking a knee to the stomach as payment. The prince doubles over with a groan, dropping Virgil’s arm and freeing him to lash out even more wildly.

“What’s gotten into him?” Logan mutters, receiving only a meaningful look from Grace. Not helpful in the slightest.

“I have to stop him!” Virgil chokes out. Frankly, Logan wouldn’t be shocked if he just started foaming at the mouth.

“Virgil, he’s stopped, you did it, everything is fine!” Patton calls, wrapped around his friend’s leg and holding on for dear life. In the end, it’s not words or reason that make Virgil stop, or even a threat from the king. It’s his fist.

Which hits Patton.

Square on the jaw.

Patton goes down.

Virgil freezes.

Then he moves.

“Patton I’m so sorry are you okay I didn’t mean to do that I swear I just got stuck again I kept looping but you got hurt but you weren’t supposed to and I just—” Virgil babbles, flying to Patton’s side. Patton lifts a careful hand to his jaw, moving it and letting the cracks echo in the emptying corridor. It’s the king who chimes in next.

“Listen here, rat,” he growls, pushing himself off the wall and stalking closer. The incoherent Virgil takes no notice, as Logan looks on and Roman intervenes.

“He’s not listening to anything, so long as I have a say about it.”

“Oh, but Little Prince, you  _ don’t  _ have a say about it.” The king sneers at the tensing of the prince’s shoulders. “Stand aside.”

“No.”

“What did you just say to me?”

“I said no, you damned waste of oxygen. No.” Roman takes the cuff to his head and remains standing, drawing his sword from its sheath.

“Want to rethink that answer, boy?”

“No.” Another hit.

“This isn’t your battle, Little Prince.”

“Yet here we are.” A harsher blow.

Before Logan can blink, Roman whips around, sword swinging to its fullest extent. The king blanches, a hint of fear skittering over his face as he lifts a defensive hand, not ten feet from the huddled Virgil and Patton. As the sword distracts the king in unnecessarily intricate flourishes, Roman’s legs dance ever closer, torso tilted back to maintain the illusion of staying in place until it’s too late.

Too late for the king, that is.

The prince yanks his chest forward to align with his feet, surprising the king just enough to steal a few moments. A few moments is all Roman needs, driving an elbow under the king’s chin and letting the momentum of the sword carry itself up, the flat of the blade smacking against the king’s head. As the king drops to his knees, Roman pivots on one foot to get behind him, spinning in a circle with his sword at the center. It snags on empty air, hesitating mere seconds before resting against the king’s neck. Logan feels his heart plummet to his shoes.

“You want to tell me what my friend is supposed to do one more time?” the prince hisses, dropping his head to let his bangs cover his eyes. “Or are you ready to give up?”

“Roman, I think that’s enough,” Logan says, held still only by Grace snatching his wrapped wrist. A tear tracks down the king’s face, but even a blind man could see it wasn’t genuine. Two tears. Three tears. Crocodile tears.

“Come on, old man. Say it. Say it,” Roman goads, rocking the sword back and forth. “Say it. We both know you want to, so say it.”

“What ever do you mean, Little Prince?” Even through his insincere sobs, the king smiles.

“Roman, don’t,” Logan pleads, twisting his hand in Grace’s. The fabric yanks harshly on the knife, the pain just bad enough to hold him back.

“You know damn well what I mean.” A cruel hatred seeps into Roman’s eyes. “Go on and tell them, why don’t you.”

“Roman, stop.” Logan wrenches his hand free, biting back a cry as the fabric snags before ripping, the blade tearing away at skin as the sash splits away. A scream dies in his throat, masked by the rattle of his clenched teeth.

“Tell them, you sick son of a bitch!” Roman shouts, the sword wobbling dangerously.

“Roman, stop!” Logan poises a knife in his right hand, aimed squarely at the prince. “Don’t do it.”

“Just tell them,  _ please _ ,” Roman murmurs, his voice cracking.

“Roman, we both know you’ll regret this. Don’t do it. Don’t take away something you can’t give back later.” Logan forces a cool steeliness into his eyes, schooling his features into a mask of impassivity as his knife remains solid and unwavering.

“Tell them.” Roman’s voice is barely a ghost of a whisper.

“Roman, I swore by you, a life for a life, if that’s what it would take to keep you whole. That was my one oath I allowed, and I intend to keep it.” Logan holds Roman’s gaze, letting the world around them melt away, taking Virgil and Patton and Grace and the king with it.

“Logan, please don’t,” Roman begs. “They need to know.”

“Need to know what, Roman? That I’m an assassin too? That I risked someone else’s life for yours? That I  _ traded  _ someone else’s life for yours? That the king has wanted me dead ever since, because just maybe, I’m the only real threat to his throne? News flash, it’s not a secret.” Logan allows emotion to sneak into his words, just enough to remind Roman that he was still human. Just enough to remind himself that he was still human. “Put the sword down, spare the king, and move on. Don’t lay down your life just to make sure his ends, too. Don’t make me be a murderer again.”

Slowly, slowly, the prince lowers his blade, a dangerous glint in his eyes as he looks back at the king. “I want you out of this castle in five minutes, and if your sorry ass isn’t gone by then, my sword is flying for the morning sun. You’d be lucky to make it back to the city of convicts alive, but right now, I can’t even promise you’ll make it out the front gates.” Roman snatches the king’s crown before stepping back, giving him room to stand. “Get the hell out of my castle.”

Logan returns his knife to its sheath, staring blankly as the king ducks into the shadows, before turning back to the other three. Aside from a rapidly spreading bruise on his face, Patton appears fine, and Virgil seems to have calmed down as well. Grace clutches the shred of red cloth, looking back up at the prince. Logan lets his eyes drift over last, only after assuring himself of the safety of everyone else in the room. Motionless guards excluded, of course.

Roman carefully positions the larger crown on his head at Logan’s nod, his eyes set with regret and resolve. Logan takes a knee, ignoring the swells of red pouring from his hand.

“Long live the king.”


	22. The Lost Chapter

The boy’s skin smacks loudly against the packed dirt, sharp rocks lodging themselves in the soles of his feet. He ignores the piercing pain, the gentle sting, determined to run faster than them. As the crescent moon gleams overhead, he squints into the distance,  toward the sparkling city of lights. The ache in his feet screams, reminding him how stupid it was not to grab shoes. Real helpful advice there, hindsight, truly impeccable timing. Better-clad shoes pound along behind him, one, five, ten, twenty, too many, urging the boy to run ever faster, to break the laws of physics, even for just a moment.

As the lights twinkle, brighter by the second, he lets the blinding white and silver envelope him, an endless shroud against the dark, cold night. The sound of a chase seems to fade, drowned out by the screaming whiteness he falls into. With the veritable army of noise in pursuit, he skids on his feet as dirt changes to concrete, screeching to a halt in a narrow alley. Mourning the shredded skin of the underside of his feet as he leans on a wall, he gnaws on his cheek, desperate to cover his ragged breathing. Finally,  _ finally,  _ the hammering of a chase slows, matching his declining heart rate—not declining fast enough. He can practically see his pulse skittering down his wrist, scrambling through his veins and tearing into his chest like a paper bag filled with rejected life.

Something warm and furry scuttles over his toes, tiny claws scraping the nails before vanishing deeper into the shadows. Deciding an unlit alley probably isn’t the best place to rest on a dark night, he peels himself off the wall of the building. The light of the dwindling moon shines pale on the bricks, illuminating a few splatters of graffiti art, along with some stray spray paint cans clinking around in the dirt. Memorable enough, should he need to return.

He worries his lower lip between his teeth, methodically peeling back layers of not-yet-dead skin, until the fresh pink surface tingles and burns. Biting away, he strolls onto the open road on the other side of the graffiti-covered building, letting his eyes wander over the environment. Trash can fires, ringing alarms, disembodied yells, and in the distance, towering walls of red and silver, the sparkling gems visible from every corner of this stupid city. A trick of the light, maybe, that makes it look like the jewels are winking out, losing their shine one by one, before flickering back to life.

With his feet carrying him of their own accord, he picks his way through litter and rubble, moving ever closer to the grand building on the horizon. The cracks and potholes of the concrete underfoot slowly turn to solid pavement, polished and unbroken, taking the dilapidated buildings with it. Crumbling brick and shattered windows give way to stucco sidings and tile windows, all gently marred by a thin layer of dirt. Despite his best efforts to keep his chin high, his back straight, he can feel the wary eyes peeking between the moth bitten curtains, analyzing this barefoot stranger in rags sneaking through their pristine city.  _ No, pristine is a bit too generous, _ he thinks with a sneer.  _ At best, it’s just a few miles north of desolation. _

He continues deeper into the throng of buildings and roads, so much more lived-in than what lay behind him. So much safer. That’s what he hopes, anyway.

Every few blocks he passes is like peeling back a layer of grime from a once-brilliant diamond. First losing the burning trash cans, then the tiled windows and cracked walls, each and every bit moving aside to allow room for mosaic glass doors, mounted candelabras, sprawling porches, expansive awnings. He forces down a desire to gasp, staring in awe at the gargoyles that appear, the blossoming gardens, the picturesque statues, the statuesque paintings, everything taking on a hauntingly alluring glow in the light of the moon. This, of course, is not helped by the flashes of maroon and gold that seem to materialize out of nowhere, darting behind lampposts and disappearing before he can peer around them.

Even as he takes in the splendor and mystique of this new world, his heart still hammers away, leaping from his rib cage to his throat and back again. For all he knows, those footsteps are still chasing him, and there’s nothing he can do about it. Keep moving forward. His best hope. His  _ only  _ hope. With a quickening heartbeat as he reminds himself how close to peril he still hangs, he speeds up, letting the grandeur melt away into a blur of nothingness, the world pinholing until all that rests between him and safety is those daunting silver gates.

Studded with rubies and diamonds, they stretch higher than anything he’d seen before, making the castle beyond seem that much more intimidating. He levels his gaze forward, ignoring the rosebushes and statues flanking him as best he can. Besides, the sprawling gardens and babbling fountains beyond offer much more intrigue. His heart leaps up and lodges itself solidly behind his molars as two guards approach, a flash of maroon slipping behind them. Based on their flinches, the color doesn’t go unnoticed, but they make no attempt to stop it. He wonders fleetingly if the maroon colors were helping to hunt him down.

“Scram, kid,” the one on the right calls upon his approach. The mole on the tip of the guard’s nose bounces with each word, destroying his otherwise mirrored identicality to the female guard beside him, whose skin is perfectly clear.

“Get on back to the outskirts,” Clear says, waving a dismissive hand. It comes to rest on the hilt of a sheathed sword, sparkling gold against the black night reflecting in the gates. He feels his pulse pick up again, fists trembling with the urge to put a white-knuckled grip on the wrought iron bars, to shake them until they shatter, to demand some sort of refuge when the world has stolen away everything else. As the blood pulsing in his ears bangs out a tune of a never ending pursuit, the guards remain unimpressed, their defenses relaxed. After all, what threat could a mere street urchin pose?

“Can’t you help me? You’re supposed to protect people, aren’t you?” He abhors the wobble in his voice.

“We’re supposed to protect the royal family, kid. You aren’t included in the job description. So get lost.” Mole scowls, tightening a hand on his own sword as Clear does the same. The boy feels his hackles raise, his legs tense, but there’s nowhere to run now. He’s trapped, a checkmate on himself, and he knows it, and the guards know it, and they still won’t help.

“What, pray tell, is going on over here?” a new voice calls, a younger one, its arrival preceded by purposeful footsteps. A boy in a red sash and bejeweled crown arrives, his arms folded primly behind his back as he pauses between Mole and Clear. “Who might this be?”

“I need—”

“Just some kid trying to break into the castle,” Mole interrupts. The boy doesn’t miss the flippant eye roll, nor does he miss the opportunity to return it when Sash Boy isn’t looking. “Nothing to worry about, Your Royal Highness.”

“Royal Highness,” the boy repeats softly. “So then you’re—”

“His Royal Highness, Prince Roman, of the greater kingdom Exolas, at your service,” Sash Boy, Prince Roman, introduces with a bow. “Now, about getting you in the castle—”

“Highness, we feel it would be in everyone’s best interests to deny him entry, for your own safety.” CLear realizes her mistake in cutting off the prince a moment too late as a flash of anger streaks through his eyes.

“You dare interrupt me? Like some petulant child? How much influence, precisely, do you suppose you might hold in this scenario? Would you like me to bring it up with my father? I am sure he would love to weigh in on such an  _ important _ situation, rather than focusing on the state of affairs of his kingdom. I have no doubt he would find it of the utmost pertinence, but truthfully, it is your call, as you clearly hold the cards in this situation, yes?” The rage dulls to a quiet burning as the prince manages to stand taller, somehow looking down his nose at a guard well over his height. “Let’s find out, shall we? Only if you so desire, of course. After all, you  _ are _ of the highest power here.”

“Highness, that’s not really necessary, we can easily—”

“Hey!” the prince shouts, voice tripling in volume as he cups his hands around his mouth, turning to face the gargantuan fortress. “There’s a kid out here!” A clamor of yells respond from beyond the gardens until one window, impossibly high above the ground, swings open to reveal a considerably well decorated guard.

“It’s your call, Highness!” Her answer rings clear across the courtyard, sending the two guards rigid. The prince shoots the boy a conspiratorial grin as he drops his hands to address Mole and Clear.

“Let him in.” He sticks his hand out as the gates reluctantly swing open under the annoyed nods from the guards, an offer for the boy, an invitation. He takes the hand, uncertain whether to bow or kneel or say hello. “I’m Prince Roman, but you knew that.” The prince smiles. “Who might you be?”

The boy hesitates, stalling only a moment before spitting out a name. “Azazel.”

“Azazel,” the prince repeats, turning the word over in his mouth, picking it apart and repositioning the splinters, as if the name had been stolen away and returned shattered. “Azazel. I like it.” He tugs the boy—Azazel—by the hand, past Mole and Clear, who glare at him as he passes. Their hands remain solidly on their swords.

With an air of mischief, the prince leans over to whisper to Azazel, “you can just call me Roman. The title is just for intimidation and influence, but you can’t say it didn’t work, right?” Roman grins at Azazel’s silence, the boy too awestruck by the gardens to respond to such an informal introduction from royalty.

Azazel absorbs everything, the columns of vines, shot through with dangling baskets of leafy plants, everything dusted with a spray of baby’s breath flowers and cherry blossom petals. The grand fountains, mirrored on either side of the sparkling path, stand several tiers high and depict impossible feats of grotesquely perfect people in royal garb. Glistening water spills over the rims, splashing against each level below. Azazel bites the inside of his cheek, forcing himself not to let his jaw drop at the pompous over-decoration of an entry garden. As if he has any comparable notion of how much is too much.

“Okay, so once we get inside,” Roman says, gently but insistently pulling Azazel’s arm, “we’re gonna sneak you to my room so you can get cleaned up. Not exactly the most hygienic state for you to meet royalty in, no?” Azazel nods absently, his head lagging too far behind to question the point of being sneaky if the prince had already announced his presence. “I intend to act as if you are but a filthy charity case, which is probably the best way to avoid another guard confrontation. Will such a plan suit you?”

“I mean, I’m not exactly in a position to argue.”

“Stupendous, then let’s get going!” Roman takes off, yanking Azazel from the last of the gardens. “However, if you try anything suspicious, I will not hesitate to kill you.” He holds a serious gaze, tapping the sword at his side meaningfully before his face cracks into a smile. “Just kidding!” Azazel stays quiet as he follows, but he certainly doesn’t miss the lingering whisper of “mostly” from the prince.

“Ah, Highness, what seems to have been the commotion?” a guard asks, standing before the largest door Azazel has ever seen in his life. He wonders whether it’s unusual to have so little security. As if he has any comparable notion of how little is too little.

“Stupid charity case, another street rat,” Roman says, his posture changing as his back goes stiff, a faint sneer toying with his lips.

“Drop the act, Princey, what’s really going on?” The guard rolls her eyes jokingly, evidently a cue for Roman to relax his stance.

“Sneaking him up to my bathroom, stow-away style.” The prince and the guard clap each other on the back, the latter nodding with a wink at Azazel as he goes. “Don’t tell!” Roman calls over his shoulder.

“Do you really have to ask?” In the immense hall, her voice echoes to no end, an oversized chorus of one voice, of every voice, white noise to Azazel’s stunned observation of the space. He takes five careful steps across the first tile square, a minute part of him thankful to Roman for allowing him to pause and take it in.

Azaze lets his eyes settle only a moment, on the cathedral windows of stained glass with their rounded triangular tops, balanced on two columns of seven shining panels, the colors bouncing off the tiled floor just enough to be visible. He can’t help but wonder how they might glisten under the light of the sun, sparkling with the promise of a new day. With no small amount of willpower, he tears his gaze away, following Roman to the other end of the room, five steps per tile along the way. Too distracted by soaking up every last detail, the thought of his pursuers almost escapes his mind.

Almost.

The rest of the path to the prince’s room passes in a blur, highlighted by Roman treating the whole ordeal as an espionage mission. He makes nonsense hand signals at every corner before continuing on, literally tiptoeing to get from one spot to the next. Azazel isn’t wholly convinced that his ankles won’t break from doing so.

“Okay, Azazel—can I call you Zel? I’m going to call you Zel. Zel, here’s the bathroom, I shall return posthaste with clean clothes, so if you could just pass me your hoodie?” Roman rushes the words out as they pause before an unmarked door. Azazel—Zel, he supposes—crosses his arms defensively, twisting his torso away.

“I’d rather hold onto it, if it’s all the same to you,” he says, grabbing a fistful of fabric and worrying it between his fingers. Roman shrugs, offering an “I’ll leave you to it then” before sneaking further down the hall. He hunches his shoulders and tucks in his elbows close to his chest, the picture of a toddler on the prowl for forbidden sugar, not to mention a stark contrast to the imposing authority he’d demonstrated with the guards.

Zel slips through the door, tugging on the handle with two sleeve-covered fingers while still clutching the jacket in his other hand. Full disclosure, it wouldn’t take a genius to guess that this bathroom was designed specifically with the prince in mind. The red silk curtains draped over the illuminated vanity mirrors, reflecting the silver shower heads, each attraction a distraction on his way to the lavishly decorated porcelain sink. With his fingers pinching the hem of his hoodie, Zel squeezes his eyes shut, trying in vain to blot out the last time he had to

take

it

off.

Tiny red moons

Angry red streaks

Burning red eyes

Soaking red cheeks

Dirty grey water

Beaten grey skin

Dripping grey tears

Hopeless grey sin

His eyes fly open, the waterworks already starting with a vengeance. He swipes a harsh sleeve over them, ignoring the way they burn and reaching for the soaps lining the mirror. By the grace of the faintest sliver of the moon overhead, the hoodie will not come off anytime soon. With the shower turned on to serve as a decoy, Zel turns his attention to the porcelain in front of him. He pumps a few squirts of soap into his hands, lathering them up under the obscenely clear water that falls from the faucet. As if out of habit, an ingrained technique rather than a defense mechanism, he methodically scrubs his skin down, shifting fabrics out of the way as needed. His hands come away marred by more dirt than seems reasonable, but again and again he dunks them back under the pipes, scrubbing away at himself, washing off the grime of escaping and running and surviving and existing.

Only when his skin is rubbed raw, only when his gaunt face is pink, only when the crescent scars resurface, only when the crooked smiles widen, only then does he slow the streaming faucet. Only then does he roll his sleeves back down, shoving aside the galaxies of the past that dot his arms, scrape his wrists, slash his stomach, laugh along his legs. A painful growl forces its way from the third, the sound conveniently masked by a gentle knock at the door.

“Zel, you almost finished? I’ve got some towels here when you’re ready, so just come next door, okay?” The sound of Roman’s footsteps echoes through the chamber, clicking into whatever lies on the other side of the mirrors. Zel doesn’t meet his own gaze in them, instead directing his eyes to a bottle of shampoo, which he kneads liberally through his hair. More brown dirt—mud, almost—cakes his hands, cascading into what used to be a clean sink. Slowly, ever so slowly, a warmer brown peeks through the layers, a quiet color drowned out by the shouts and cries of being on the run. Once the water finally runs clear, he washes his hands, keeping careful track of the three finger flexes, the stutter breaths, the taps, the three drops, the three flexes, the rolls, the nails, the webbing, each individual digit twisted and the suds rinsed away.

Zel wastes no time in getting out the door, elbowing the faucet to a stop as he goes. With the quiet residual drips splattering against the filthy sink, he slips into the hall, wiping his hands dry on his pants and ignoring the faint tingle of over-scrubbed skin. To his left stands a grand door— _ grandeur _ , he thinks with a wry grin—covered in copious amounts of diamonds and rubies, intertwined with silver piping and red silk. Zel raps a tentative knuckle on the door, only a little surprised at the ease with which it swings open.

“Okay, so I found some things you can change into,” Roman says, handing Zel a ridiculously plush towel to dry his hair. “We’ve got some of my old stuff that might fit you, or—”

“I’m keeping the hoodie,” Zel says, his voice muffled through the towel.

“But if you would just let me—”

“I’m keeping. The hoodie.” Zel lowers the towel, glaring over the perfectly frayed fibers.

“Right, got it, keep the hoodie, understood, no problem there,” Roman says, raising jokingly defensive hands in front of himself. At no sign of attack, the prince takes the sopping towel back, pretending not to notice how thoroughly soaked Zel’s hair still is as he takes him by the wrist. “Now, there’s someone I should like you to meet.” Despite Roman’s delusions of some sort of stealth mission still being in the works, Zel can tell the prince is just excited to show off a new person. That’s the explanation he’s going with, anyway.

“Roman, what the fu—get in here, you idiot!” a voice hisses, interrupting the pair mid-journey on their way to wherever the prince had intended to go. Zel lets his arm be yanked away, the rest of him following limply behind, as Roman squeezes through the cracked doorway from which the voice originated. “Striking,” the same voice announces before flicking some switch to illuminate several chandeliers. Zel winces, shielding his eyes from the glare while Roman seems immune.

“Excellent timing, Grace,” the prince says, dipping his chin in a shallow nod. “Although I must say, you remain the only person I know to say ‘striking’ when activating a light source.”

“And you remain the only prince I know to befriend lowly kitchen staff and apparent runaways, yet here we are.” As Zel’s eyes adjust to the brightness, a short silhouette of a blue-haired girl takes shape in his line of sight, a half-smile resting on her face. “Name’s Grace. Pleased to meetcha.”

Zel stares suspiciously at the hovering handshake waiting for him before reluctantly returning it, trying not to recoil at the sensation of  _ germs so many germs his hers theirs transferring swapping crawling over and inside and through him and multiplying— _

He sighs with relief as Grace releases his hand, sticking her tongue out at Roman as she does so. While Zel tries to discreetly wipe off the contaminated hand on his pants, Grace turns to stare down the prince. Judging by the look on his face, Roman probably isn’t too keen on whatever she’s about to say.

“All right, Princer, either square up or start talking.”

“I can explain, I swear on my sword.”

“I sure hope you can, because your pretty little face is very close to catching something, and I don’t think you want to find out what it is.”

Roman shoves his fingers through a clump of hair, somehow managing to not ruin the style, before sighing and letting his squared shoulders droop. “It’s late, the guards I hate didn’t want to let him in, he was obviously scared out of his wits, and I was bored. Satisfied?”

“Marginally.” Grace gives Zel a disinterested once-over, her eyes catching on the tattered hoodie. “When were you planning to share the news of your new toy with me?”

“I’m not a toy,” Zel mutters.

“He speaks! What’s your name, kid?” A joking light dances through Grace’s eyes.

“Azazel. Zel. Whichever.” He draws his shoulders up to his ears, burying his fists in his pockets. Before Grace can respond, she interrupts herself to listen to the whisper of practiced quiet footsteps just beyond the door.

“Ari!” she exclaims, throwing it open and darting out. A blur of maroon darts by, twin to the ones Zel saw on the streets and at the gates, vanishing and taking Grace with it.

“I suppose that’s our cue,” Roman says, toeing the door open to let Zel out. Rather than stop to admire whatever storage room they’d ducked into, the pair exits, flicking the lights off as they go.

“Ah, Little Prince, we’ve been looking all over for you.” Roman flinches, the ghost of a wince crossing his face. Before the pair stands an aged copy of the prince, right down to the perfectly stacked vertebrae.

“Roman, you had us so worried!” A more feminine version of the oversized Roman clone moves to stand beside the first, her brow knit with worry.

“Sorry, I didn’t—”

“And who’s this urchin?” the man continues, barreling right over Roman’s answer. “Drag him out of some garbage heap, did you?”

“Now, now, let’s not start this here.” Her eyes shine with the same warmth as the prince’s, a stark contrast to the icy disgust in the man’s. “Who might you be, dear?”

Zel swallows around a substantial lump in his throat, gluing his gaze to his bare feet. “Azazel, ma’am.”

“Majesty,” Roman whispers, nudging Zel’s foot.

“Azazel, Your Majesty,” Zel corrects.

“A pleasure,” she says. “Allow me to personally welcome you to the palace of Exolas, though it would appear Roman has already taken that liberty.” Zel smiles weakly as the man—the king, apparently, with that thorny crown—storms down the corridor to speak with a guard stationed on the wall. A flash of that same maroon joins them, actually holding a consistent shape for once. A tall girl with impossibly long blonde hair, adorned in maroon and gold, leans forward to whisper in the guard’s ear. The king stiffens, raising a hand to beckon the queen, who scurries over with a wave to the boys.

“That could’ve gone worse,” Roman murmurs. “You’re still alive, at least, and your skin is still attached.”

“Love the visual, thanks. Can we go now, while I’m still breathing?” Zel heads down the hall without waiting for an answer, leaving Roman to trip over his feet as he catches up.

“Boys!” the king’s voice booms, echoing through the empty space. “Get over here. Now.” Roman pivots on one foot, dragging Zel along and depositing him beside Maroon Girl. As for himself, the prince takes a strategic position between Zel and the queen. “Again.”

“Intruders at the door, seek shelter until you receive an official guard’s notice,” Maroon Girl says. “Nothing else has been made available to me at this time, Your Majesty.” With a bow and a blur, the girl is gone.

“You two, come with me.” The queen’s voice has taken on a quiet intensity as she heads away from the huddle, letting Roman and Zel trail close behind. Down a ridiculous number of halls, around endless corners, the queen leads an unknowable wild goose chase, explaining nothing. “In here.” She urges them through a door, so undefined it blends seamlessly into the wall. “If you haven’t gathered yet, we’re going to be hunkering down in here for the time being, so make yourselves comfortable. Whatever crossfire you may hear, no one opens this door. Understood?” Zel and Roman nod frantically, hands in the air to prove it. Moderately satisfied, the queen drops her harsh tone, trading it for the kind one from earlier.

“This is my study, around which you can feel free to peruse. Roman, I know you haven’t been in here in quite some time, but just be mindful, yes?” She leans against a wall, looking more like a mother than a high and mighty queen. Never one to give up an opportunity to be nosy, Zel stalks between the rows of tables and cabinets and shelves, peering into jars and cups and crates. Two cylinders sit beside an empty glass container, filled with substances just begging to be mixed together. The queen waves a flippant hand at Zel’s pleading gaze. He beams, trickling the liquids in and marveling at the resulting glow. “Luminol oxidation reaction with potassium ferricyanide,” according to the little plaque in front of the set up.

“Cool,” Roman breathes, appearing at Zel’s shoulder. The queen moves to stand with them, demonstrating and explaining countless experiments and projects. Even as the din of attacks and screams hammers away at the door, the trio is number to it, too lost in the cacophony of their own little world. Too lost in the endless pounding of feet pulsing through Zel’s head, an all too familiar sound duplicated mere yards away.

Maybe it’s the finality of one yell, or the ear-splitting silence, or the minute exhale from the queen. Maybe the exhale is one of relief, or terror, or pure uncertainty. Maybe she doesn’t know if it’s over, or if anything happened at all, or it they’ll ever get out of this room alive. Maybe Zel doesn’t really want to find out.

“It’s all clear, Your Majesty,” Maroon Girl calls, cracking open the indistinguishable door. She offers a quick bow before vanishing again, leaving the door to swing itself shut. After cleaning up the experiments they’d messed with, the queen ushers the boys into the hall, eyeing the sinking moon with distaste.

“It’s been a long night, yes?” Zel’s yawn is answer enough. “Why don’t you two turn in for tonight? I will speak with the king about your situation, Zel, if that’s quite alright.”

Roman takes Zel by the hand and leads him away, murmuring, “eyes on the ceiling. You don’t want to see the carnage of the ground when you can have the grace of the sky.” Zel’s eyes lift dutifully, barely avoiding the visual assault they were supposed to see— _ red, red everywhere, burning red and cold blue and icy white and motionless and gone and quiet and forgotten but unforgiven _ —he doesn’t see any of it. He only sees the ceiling.

Roman prattles on endlessly, a welcome distraction from the shouts of a pursuit in Zel’s head, twin to the voices outside the queen’s hidden door. “We do not yet have a guest chamber in which you can retire, so precisely how adverse would you be to the idea of staying in my room?”

“Yeah, ’t’s fine,” Zel mumbles.

“Fantastic, because we’re sort of already here.” Roman steps aside to reveal the same bejeweled door from earlier, swinging open at the hand of a silent guard. “After you.” Zel drifts through the space, barely registering the guard taking up a defensive position outside after closing the door behind the prince. Ignoring whatever explanation Roman offers, Zel collapses onto the oversized bed, suddenly hit with the wave of exhaustion he’d been holding back for days.

As the prince bustles about doing whatever it is royalty does so late at night, Zel lets the white noise wash over him, feeling the dead weight of his aching legs, the numbness in his feet, the sheer blank abyss in his head. Fluffy or sturdy, big or small, warm or cold, Zel can’t tell, but the mattress accepts him regardless, the gentle embrace like that of a long lost friend, shifting slightly to accommodate another weight beside him. Zel doesn’t move. And then

all

at

once,

he falls.

Dark endlessness, surrounding and suffocating, swallowing and smothering, shrinking in until the sun itself is sacrificed for the sole purpose of consuming more stars, more shining lights, smaller and smaller as the shadows loom so large, so tall, so claustrophobic, so much so much so  _ much _ —

Cold brightness. Cutting through the clear cage. Clipping the curtains of consciousness. Complete. Cowardly. Courageous. Can’t take it. Cowardly courage. Courageous coward. Cold. Clear. Can’t. Can’t can’t can’t  _ can’t _ .

Won’t.

\-------

The dreams don’t stop. The hoodie doesn’t come off. The sounds of a chase don’t fade. The king doesn’t grow reluctantly fond. The terror doesn’t stop. Zel just learns to hide it. He learns to pretend it’s normal to wake up beside a prince in a palac. To train with weapons with a prince and a cook. To be welcomed into the open arms of royalty. To strap on a belt of knives. To ghost them over the prince’s skin. To feel a sense of camaraderie in an inexplicable safe haven. To be ambushed at every corner.

Zel lets the servant’s back entrance door click shut behind him, hefting a garbage bag over his shoulder. For all the training he’d been put through to prepare for another attack, there sure seems to be a lot of grunt work involved. That, or Grace just doesn’t want to do it herself. He supposes it doesn’t really matter, so long as he has a roof over his head, and a glittering one at that. The lid of the dumpster clatters open against the wall, somehow not reeking despite how much waste went into it on a daily basis. He almosts wants to revel in it, the sheer irony in the dirtiest thing he sees being the cleanest thing he ran into on his way here. Of course, there’s no time for appreciating one’s lot when more pressing matters are at hand. Namely, the banging door he could’ve sworn he’d locked.

“Hey, here it is!”

“It’s the runaway!” Zel forces back a sigh as two guards bust into the space, voices intentionally louder with the obvious goal of getting a rise out of him. Mole and Clear, off duty from the front gates for some reason.

“Look, I don’t want any trouble, okay?”

Clear jabs her elbow into Mole’s side, snickering at the slight twitch of Zel’s hand. “Didn’t ask what you wanted, freak.” Mole jerks his head to the side, a cocky grin spreading as Clear darts forward, hand first. Before Zel can even raise a fist to defend himself, he feels a sharp warmth spreading over his core. Clear retracts her knuckles only to ram them upward, sending Zel’s teeth chattering and jaw aching. He reels backwards, pitching at the waist over the open dumpster. The swing of Clear’s leg is too fast for him to react, resulting in a skinny kid crashing headfirst into a heap of garbage. Zel hates the soft groan he can’t hold back.

“You can just sit in that dumpster all night, freak!” Clear taunts.

“You’ll never be a  _ real _ Exolecian!” Mole adds. Zel wonders if the guy is just holding a grudge over how the prince overruled them.

“Aw, look, it’s crying!” Zel lifts a reluctant hand to feel the warm water trickling over his cheek. At least it doesn’t come away red, which has got to be some kind of victory, right?

“What a freak! Look, its hands are twitching, too.”  _ I’m counting my fifteens instead of counting what little is left of your life span, thank you very much. _

“You better learn your place, freak.”

“Yeah, cause it’s not in this castle.” The slamming of the door fills Zel’s ears, drowning out his musings of whether they had any better insults than ‘freak,’ along with the sounds of his own quiet sobs.

The echoing of the door fades with time, nearly gone by the time he reaches the training room weeks later, a neutral expression plastered on his face. Just beyond this slab of metal waits Grace, her grin wide and shining. Roman, his clothes pressed and primped to the nines. Maroon Girl, her long hair tied back and her nails properly picked. Ari, Zel has learned, a runner for the royalty, always darting through the kingdom’s most remote reaches for the most pertinent information, she was seldom seen without her maroon and gold uniform. And on the outside of the training room door, Zel, wiping the last evidence of his battles with counting from his face.

“Hey, Zel’s here! Why so late?” Grace says as he makes his way in. “We’ve got this new thing to show you!”

“We?” Zel asks. “Where’s the prince?” As a matter of fact, Roman was nowhere to be seen. Nevertheless, Zel picks up a blade from the cart and fidgets while he waits for Grace to launch into the hypothetical circumstance of the day.

“On his way, not important,” Ari says, waving a dismissive hand, the other loosely gripping a knife. “Come on, Zel, this is what Grace wanted to show you.” She holds out her free arm so the girls can grab each other by the wrist, shifting away from the cart of weapons. “It’s for when your opponent is armed and you need to get out of the way.”

Grace slides Zel a wink before slipping into her defensive mode, eyes blank with light concentration. Ari trades her own relaxed grin for a cocky smirk, slashing at Grace’s face with her knife. The latter ducks expertly, grabbing overhand at the fingers resting on her forearm. With Ari’s momentum still running its course, Grace yanks her own arm up with the other hand, forcing Ari’s into the air with it. Ari’s swinging forearm collides with the one Grace now controls, a distraction from Grace’s carefully dancing feet. Zel watches as Grace kicks out a foot to wrap around her own leg, both arms in the air as her torso maintains her balance. She yanks the arms down with a crouch as her crossed leg swings around, scraping over the smooth dirt. While Ari’s upper body falls from the force, her feet go flying out from under her as Grace’s sweeping foot makes contact. After the shortest of blinks from Zel, Ari is on the floor, elbows covered in a rug burn, as Grace straightens from a crouch. She offers Ari a hand before nodding at Zel. “Think you can do that?”

Zel quirks his lip, lifting a doubtful eyebrow. “I can certainly try.”

“Great, so just take my arm here, and—Ari, pass me the knife? Thanks so much. Zel, sheath yours, you won’t need it. Now grab my arm here, and I’ll go over, and—no, no,  _ here.  _ Yes, good, so now duck, and I’ll swing—no,  _ now  _ duck, there you go. So my arm will swing with the knife, and while it’s doing that, put your hand here—no, overhand, there you go. Go over the fingers and your own arm so I can’t pull away, good. Now lift up—no, elbow this way, that way my momentum won’t slice you. That’s right, now the swing finishes, and then—no, keep your arms up, or else the second part won’t work. Always keep your arms above you, then people will think your defenses are down, and you can come out swinging when they least expect it. Okay, now cross your foot around your leg like a wind-up—either leg is fine, just keep your balance. Cross it, and while my arm is recovering and trying not to drop the knife, drop into a crouch—yes, you can take your hands down, but do it fast so it pulls me down too. Right, good. While I’m falling, spin your leg out and around to catch my ankle here—right, that’s it! Then you just speed it up, and it’ll actually be enough force to take me down. Well, take down whoever your opponent is. Ready to try it faster?” Zel wipes a slick of sweat from his forehead, still not quite used to how fast-paced of a teacher Grace could be. Ari grins wryly, leaning against a wall and observing. Sure, she didn’t have to do anything, of course she’d be fine. Ari and her endlessly shiny hair. Zel could see why Grace lost all coherence around her.

“Zel? Faster?” Grace holds out her arm expectantly, not even a bead of sweat on her brow.

“Faster,” Zel confirms, grabbing her wrist. As his hands grow more slippery and Grace’s face slowly turns pink, with the occasional sarcastic commentary from Ari, Zel manages to get some semblance of a hang on the move. The barest trace of a smile crosses his face when he actually gets Grace to drop the knife.

“Okay, now let’s get specific.”

“That wasn’t specific enough?”

“No, let’s assume your attacker knows how to counter this. You need to be prepared, but don’t worry, it’s all in the footwork. Don’t groan at me, you asked for this.”

“I did no such thing.”

“I don’t really care either way. Just take my arm again.” Zel rolls his eyes, taking the additional criticisms from Ari and Grace as the latter talks him through yet another technique. “Just balance on one foot, pivot, and sweep out the other leg! Easy!”

Zel knits his brow, uncertain as to why the particulars of one leg really needed to be hammered home so heavily. “Like this?”

“Not quite. Try putting your weight here, twist here, and—yes, that’s it! You got it!”

“I did it?” Zel’s eyebrows draw together. For such a minute detail, he’d rarely picked up so quickly on it before.

“You did it!” Ari shakes her head with a low laugh at Grace’s excitement.

“What’d he do?” Roman appears at the door, sash perfectly positioned as always.

“He got the pivot down!” Grace stands to reveal her pants torn at the knees, an oblivious excitement in her voice.

“Whoa, great job! Took me a solid month to get that one.” Zel wonders if Roman is being overenthusiastic for his sake, or for fun. One never really knew with the prince.

“Ro, it’s  _ been  _ a month.”

“Right. Show me again?” Zel trades a mischievous grin with Ari before darting forward and snatching the prince’s hand. Without letting Roman put up a defense, Zel yanks him to the ground, dirtying up that pretty white uniform.

“I didn’t mean to demonstrate on  _ me _ !”

“Oops.” Zel shrugs, unable to hide the way the corners of his mouth twist up.

“Where were you, anyway, Princer?” Grace asks.

“On my way to get you all, actually. We’re wanted in the kitchens. Well, no,  _ you  _ are wanted in the kitchens, but it seems a bit unfair to train without you, not that anyone considered my feelings in the event that I didn’t show up.” Zel punches Roman’s shoulder as he slips through the metal door, letting the prince and the girls catch up. He considers fleetingly the abnormality of how well everything fell into place. How a street rat like him could be walking through a palace, flanked by a prince, a cook, and a runner decked out in maroon. How that same door could click shut on a world of blades and sparring as if it were nothing. How the weight of a knife at his hip could be comforting. How he could feel reassured that he would be prepared if another night like the one from so long ago reared its ugly head. How he could feel ready. How he could know how to fight back. How he could  _ want _ to fight back.

“Hey, I might stay back for a minute,” Roman says. “Go on ahead to the kitchens, I shall be on my way shortly. I have something to discuss with my mom, you know how it goes.”  _ Yes, you just have a casual conversation to hold with the most powerful woman in the kingdom _ , Zel thinks.  _ Of course I know how that goes. _

“Later, Princer,” Grace says, stepping in to fill his gap beside Ari, who remains ready to sprint at any moment, should information need to be spread. She doesn’t react to Grace’s tentative reach to hold her hand, happily keeping a nonsensical conversation afloat on behalf of the ever-quiet Zel. A call sounds from somewhere he can’t discern, and Ari is off to the races, leaving the discussion to drown between Zel and the empty-handed Grace.

It’s an amicable silence, filled with peace of mind and a mutual acknowledgement of its own awkwardness. As the pair finally approaches the kitchens, their group split in half, Zel takes a deep inhale, relishing in the quiet that the chaos of cooking is about to kill. He leans against a wall to wait for an update from Grace on how he can help, mentally reviewing the sparring session in the meantime.

“Zel, duck!” someone shouts, ripping him out of his thoughts and snapping his attention forward. He drops to the floor, hearing the high whistle of a blade sailing inches over his head, directly at the two people that smash their way through a cathedral window. The knife sinks into the one in front, eliciting a triumphant “ha!” from behind Zel. Grace steps around him, a furious gleam in her eye as she helps Zel to his feet. “You know what they say,” she murmurs.

“Always have backup,” Zel replies. He surges forward, expertly drawing the knife from his waist and going after the uninjured person. Grace continues her assault on her own opponent, elbows and fists flying faster than Ari’s legs.

Speak of the devil, a streak of maroon careens past Zel’s ear, lingering just long enough to whisper, “Take them down. I’ve got your back.” Zel doesn’t pause to reflect on how quickly these people have accepted him, instead focusing his energy on taking down this intruder. A hulking mass of meat, the guy stands three heads taller than Zel and twice as wide, nostrils flaring like an angry cow. Probably not an inaccurate comparison, to be honest.

With each thrown elbow, each swiped leg, each careful slash, each newly learned technique, Zel watches the intruder’s hope dwindle into nothingness, splintering away right alongside whatever remains of his life. More often than not, the guy is crashing to the floor under the practiced attacks from Zel. Zel hates the way it all feels so innate to him. He hates the eerie calm that envelopes his skull as he pins the man down, methodically inserting the blade like a murderous puppet. He hates the utter lack of emotion in his chest as the writhing man goes still. He hates the way his nails rim themselves in red. He hates the way his limbs keep moving of their own accord. He hates the way they wench the other knife from the man’s grip. He hates how familiar the crest on the fallen man’s uniform is. Zel hates the pounding memory it brings back. He hates the coldness of his own knife, ripped from the man’s body.

“Zel!” He hates the way he doesn’t hesitate to let a blade fly, watching it sink into the shoulder of Grace’s assailant. They don’t go down, instead jerking their way past Grace to advance on Zel, whose arm still hovers solidly in the air. Zel cocks his own knife back, his mind emptying.  _ This time, I won’t miss. _

The attacker wobbles closer.

Zel takes aim.

The attacker stops.

Zel releases the blade.

The attacker drops to their knees.

The blade keeps going.

Zel missed.

The queen

rounds

the

corner.

“Watch out!” Zel screams, only able to look on in horror as the world stops spinning. One centimeter at a time, the blade drifts closer to the queen’s heart, bewilderment turning to fear in her eyes. Roman inches up next to her, impossibly slow, too late, not enough not enough  _ not enough. _ The maroon blur appears, not fast enough, scraping beside Grace just in time to yank her out of the clutches of the kneeling attacker. Silence deafens Zel, the ground beneath his feet grinding to a halt. Understanding dawns slowly, so slowly, too slowly in the queen, as her eyes shut, as she nods, an imperceptible dip of the chin that hardly lasts a fraction of a second. A tiny bead of red blooms, floating like a cardinal’s feather to the cool tile. It hits. And splatters.

And all at once

the world

starts

turning.

Roman is silent and the queen drops to the floor and Zel panics and Grace is gone and Ari is gone and the attacker is frozen and Roman starts moving but Zel moves faster and he’s down the hall and he rips off the weapon belt and he draws his fingers into his hoodie  _ hide the red _ and he’s at the other end and Roman has gone still and Zel passes the king but the king doesn’t notice and Zel is at the front gates and past Mole and past Clear and through the gardens and into the streets of the city and against a wall and heaving for air and he hears  _ those damn footsteps again  _ but no one is chasing him and the only drumming is his relentless heartbeat roaring in his ears and he sinks to the ground and moans but no one sees him fall.

A streak of maroon and gold.

“I’ll take care of it.”

The night is silent and empty again. Zel curls in on himself, choking out sobs because  _ damn it Zel what did you do _ but quiet, so quiet, because no one can know, he needs to get away, get out, figure out  _ what the hell he just did. _

It’s the bright shine of reflected glass across the clear street that gets him moving, gets him out under the light of the moon again, the same silver from back then, heading away from the towering walls of red and silver. Away from those inquisitive eyes behind that shining glass. Away from the daunting gates. Away from safety. Away from danger. Danger he brought upon himself. Again.

Clangs of alarm bells and bright flashes of light chase Zel through the streets, echoing and blinding and consuming.  _ Luminol oxidation reaction with potassium ferricyanide _ , he thinks, a silent mantra to keep time with his gasping breaths and aching feet. Alone and desperate, he sprints through the empty streets, feeling the burning gaze of wary eyes behind moth bitten curtains and cracked windows, each growing more derelict by the block. The calls of panic recede behind him as he finally reaches a familiar building, the one covered in graffiti and ringed with spray cans from so many nights ago.

Zel ducks inside, snatching a can on his way between the dislodging bricks. If he’s going to be stuck here, might as well mark it that way, right? As the paint drips slowly, turning a tasteful curse word into a morbid mirage of normalcy, Zel collapses on the wall again. Those pounding feet in his memory return, heading out of the kingdom, back the way he came that first night. He tugs his lip between his teeth again, resigning himself to become a hollow shell on the outskirts, rather than hurt someone else. Again.

_ I didn’t mean to. _

__ _ But you still did it. _

__ _ I just wanted to help. _

__ _ They just wanted to live. _

__ _ I just want to be done. _

Zel shuts his eyes, ignoring the cracking sound that accompanies the collision between his head and the brick wall. Seconds of minutes or hours or eons pass as he remains still, all alone, save for the crescendo of screams and chaos in the streets around him.

It’s the crunch of shoes on dead grass that rouses him, followed by ragged breathing. Reluctantly, Zel rises, picking his way over the debris of time to see a kid in glasses leaning against his artwork. He eyes the tiny slash on the kid’s thumb, dripping a gentle red to stain the dirt, mixing with salt water and spray paint. The kid— _ not a kid, look behind the glasses, he’s your age, Zel _ —slows his breathing, knitting his eyebrows in concentration. A painfully convincing smile crawls over his face, and it hurts, oh God how it hurts Zel to see the underlying truth in the eyes, how terribly fake that expression is. Zel flinches as a twig snaps under his feet, drawing the other boy’s attention. His hand floats into the air, beckoning Zel closer to shake it. The boy offers a careful half-grin, his eyes once again betraying his real disposition—that of someone trying to lure a stray cat from its personal safe spot amidst a tangle of trees. Zel hesitates.

“Hi, I’m Patton.” Zel stares with disbelief. The last time he took an inviting hand—

_ No. _

__ _ Don’t you dare think like that. _

__ _ That’s in the past. _

__ _ Azazel is dead and gone and you’re moving on. _

__ He takes a single deliberate step forward, extending his own hand.

“Virgil."


End file.
